


In the Face of Isolation

by Nanna_Jemima



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Dark Past, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 73,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanna_Jemima/pseuds/Nanna_Jemima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While drunk, Eskel lets slip the hints of a tale. Lambert wouldn't be Lambert if he did not drag it out of him. It all started with a contract for some wyverns. The hunt having gone completely side-ways Eskel then happened upon the strangest person he'd ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“I've never slept with a succubus.”

Eskel knew that game would end up in bad, bad places. It was only a poor consolation that Geralt raised his mug same time as him. They'd all had plenty of years to gain a number of experiences in that department. In fact, he suspected Lambert might be lying, but he couldn't be sure. He **was** pretty sure that Lambert had slept with others of that ilk. Fuck it, he was too drunk to care anyway.

“How 'bout that!” Lambert's derisive taunts sounded somewhat hollow. Or was that just his imagination? ”I expected Geralt might've. But you? Eskel, Eskel. Still waters run deep.”

“I'm a sucker for women with horns,” he attempted to deflect the comment. Glancing at Geralt he could tell the git was just about to lay into him about their previous ribbing regarding dangerous women. Not that he could blame him, but he was not about to let him ruin the game before it began. And he wanted to get back at Lambert.

“ **I've** never slept with a vampire.”

Geralt sighed and drank again, and Lambert – looking less than pleased – had a drink as well.

“Not so derisive now, huh smartass?” He was never very good at baiting the younger witcher, but he could try.

“No, I simply have better taste than you.” Nope. Definitely not good at this. Lambert never rose to the bait. “And prettyboy here's been everywhere, it seems.”

Geralt just shrugged, an uncoordinated and ungainly movement at this point in their inebriation.

“So, does Yen know?” Lambert pressed on.

Geralt shrugged again. “Our uhhhh procla-, plock-, pracli-, hrmmm, urges aren't a secret. She knows. Not the specifics, but mmmh.” Their pale companion finished his sentence with a grousing grunt. Eskel was sure Geralt's exploits didn't much please his lady love, but theirs was a strange courtship that made no sense to anyone – maybe not even them. He never understood Geralt's fascination with the dark Lady of Vengerberg, and he never hesitated to let him know. Lambert did seem to take pity on him, though, because Eskel felt his eyes back on himself immediately.

“So what is it with you, Eskel? Never met a vampire that could tempt you?”

“Seen any with horns?” He shot back. That got the uproarious laughter he was aiming for. They were trying to have fun, not be depressing shits. “All right, Geralt, your turn.”

“I've never, uhhh, taken fisstech.” Geralt stated.

Plough it all. Eskel drank. More than the game required him to.

“Eskel, really?” He could hear the disbelief and subsequent disapproval in Geralt's voice. Or was it disappointment? Eskel didn't meet his eyes – he didn't want to know.

“Once, with that succubus.” Lambert snorted softly at that. Eskel knew that git would pester him for the whole story until he caved. Fuck it all. He could only hope they'd get drunk enough for Lambert to have forgotten about it come morning.

“My turn again. I've never bedded a sorceress.” Geralt looked up at Lambert sharply. The aim of that one was clear. The grunting growl Geralt let out told them both he knew it as well.

“Really, Lambert? Really? That's the best you can do?” He did take the mandatory drink. “So does two count for two drinks, then? Or should I save the second one for your next question?”

“Hey, thanks for the idea.” Lambert's shit-eating grin was too much. Even Eskel cracked a smile at that.

Geralt just groaned again. “When will I learn?”

“Learn what? To keep it in your pants around sorceresses?” Eskel barely avoided spewing his vodka over the table at Lambert's comment. Clearly they would have to be sharper if they were to catch him out.

Eskel decided to come to his brother's aid this time.

“All right, my turn. I've never – after a bender – woken up wearing nothing but my knickers.” No need to say that he had, on occasion, woken up after a bender wearing nothing at all. This game was all about the wording after all. He congratulated himself on not yet being too drunk to fuck that one up.

Both of them drank, though he had sort of hoped Geralt wouldn't have to. Good. Time for comeuppance. “Lambert, Lambert. Kaer Morhen's black sheep.” Eskel shook his head at him full well knowing that the man was as resistant to disapproval as a goose to water.

“Wanna know the best part?” The sleazy grin on the man's face was a clear warning of things to come. “They weren't even my knickers.” Huh, that made for an interesting picture.

“And you, Geralt? Lambert's a lost cause, but you? What would Papa Vesemir say?” He tried to sound disapproving, but he didn't have the motivation for anything but friendly ribbing while there was an image in his head of Lambert wearing someone else's knickers.

“I think, Papa Vesemir would've drank that round, too.” Geralt slurred back at him. Damn him. He was probably right.

“All right, Geralt, your turn. I've never...” he motioned for him to continue.

“... jumped out of a lover's window.”

That one he hadn't expected. Especially not Lambert's drinking at that. “That so? Must've been one tough character, whose wife you were ploughing. Incidentally: whose knickers were you wearing at the time?” Yeah that little dig did get under his skin. The deepening of Lambert's habitual frown told him as much. Eskel felt pleased with himself – more than he probably ought, really.

“That wasn't it.” Lambert sounded uncharacteristically regretful. “He was a friend. Didn't wanna hurt his feelings.”

“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, jackass, Eskel thought to himself. Out loud he said: “You're a true friend.”

“My turn again.” Lambert's grin was all kinds of smug, and Eskel was pretty certain he knew the general theme of the next statement. “I've never bedded a princess.” Yup. He'd been right. And he was somewhat relieved that he didn't have to drink again. Geralt did, though. Typical.

“All right, wolf. Time to come clean. Is there anything on this continent you haven't fucked?”

Before Geralt had even drawn breath to respond, Lambert had launched into a terrible rendition of _Ploughing a Troll._ They were laughing hysterically before he'd made it half-ways through the refrain, and before he reached the end of said refrain he had to give up and laugh with them.

Geralt was the first to regain his breath. “Your turn again, Eskel.”

“I never got so drunk, I woke up the next morning without remembering how I got there.” Unfortunately, he silently added. There were many an episode he would have rather preferred to forget. But still, probably was better to remember who might become a problem for you down the road.

Both of the others drank and then looked at each other. “Well, Lambert, I'd say that's a challenge, isn't it?”

“You bet, pretty boy. What's a good place for him to wake up in tomorrow?”

Oh shit, he was in for it now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was far too drunk to begin thinking of not getting too drunk, but he still attempted to resolve he wouldn't get any more drunk than he was. Fat chance.

“Hello, Eskel, anybody home?” Lambert's annoying sneer cut through his desperation-laced ruminations and he grunted in return.

“What?”

Lambert gestured at Geralt. Had he spoken?

“I said – on the topic of trolls,” he glared at Lambert, who just grinned back at him, “I've never killed a troll, if it wasn't absolutely necessary.”

Only Lambert drank. Of course. He played fast and loose with every single rule there was. Eskel didn't know why, but he suspected the reason might sound close to 'because he could'.

“All right, we been asking questions, where we knew what the answer would be for at least one of the others.” Lambert glanced at Geralt, whose eyes met Eskel's own, and they shared a worried look. What was he up to now? “Let's up the ante a bit.”

Eskel watched as Lambert seemed to ponder something for a long while, and then the younger witcher downed most of his drink. “I'm not as fucking old as you two bastards,” Eskel and Geralt chuckled in response, “so I don't know half of what you've been doing before I came along, so...” he trailed off, but a positively evil smirk manifested itself on his face before he continued: “I've never slept with a fellow witcher.”

No chuckles were heard at all. And then Eskel had to take that drink. He drank more deeply than he should. Much more. Those were memories best left alone. Curse Lambert, the stupid fucker.

“Well, well, well, Eskel. I didn't know you swung that way,” Lambert teased.

“I don't,” he protested.

“No shame in admitting it,” the git continued.

“No, and there's nothing to admit.” He noticed Geralt looking at him with that annoying ponderous – though somewhat unfocused – look in his eyes, but at least he said nothing.

“It was that bad, huh?”

“No.” Fuck no. It had been glorious. Dusty, gory and utterly glorious. But there was no way in hell he'd tell them about that strange witcher he met while out on the Path.

“So it wasn't bad.” Lambert was barely containing his laughter by now.

“No.” He downed the rest of the bottle standing near him.

“But you still don't swing that way.”

“No.”

Lambert shook his head at him, but apparently decided to let him off the hook. At least for now. “Vodka. Vodka's gone. Who's gonna go get some more?”

Geralt immediately dodged it of course. It was fine, Eskel could do with the break.

“All right. I'll do it. Kitchen... It's that way, right?” He knew damn well where the kitchen was – he just wasn't aiming for it. He needed some air. The game had him remembering all kinds of things that just made him depressed. Stay away from dangerous women, they kept telling Geralt, but really who else were there for men like them? Their little Fraternity of Fucked-up Faces, she'd called them. Certain monsters liked them for their humanity, some liked them for their monstrosity, sorceresses seemed to be drawn to them as something that could somehow be considered equals – of a sort – equally monstrous, maybe, and some of them seemed to like a little monstrosity.

Eskel shuddered. It hadn't been like that. Not with that witcher.

Just before he left the room he called out to Lambert. “Ey, I don't swing that way. She didn't have any horns after all.” He didn't linger to see any reaction to his lame joke.

The fresh air didn't seem to help him much, unfortunately.

He vaguely remembered sitting down on a patch of grass to try and clear his head, and that his two boon-companions joined him outside, but the next thing he remembered was waking up in his own bed (and thank goodness for small blessings) – wearing a dress. Yennefer's by the look of it. Fuck it all to hell. Lambert's idea. Probably. He was the one with the penchant for wearing other people's clothes anyway.

Breakfast was awkward to say the least. He kept his pounding head down and scowled at his plate. It was much better to just get lost in reminiscences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this scene could do with some expansion and serve as the framework for the tale. The song Lambert launched into is by Miracle of Sound. It can be found on YouTube - and I highly recommend listening. It is hilarious.


	2. Chapter 1

He wasn't sure how many years ago it was now. Many. More than he'd care to think about; he definitely didn't get laid often enough, as there hadn't been all that many since her. But maybe he should learn his lesson from the masked ball during the katakan hunt and start working that angle. That was a thought for later.

It had been a mild winter that year with temperatures hovering just around the point of freezing, and because of it he hadn't been back to Kaer Morhen. There was plenty to do, too. Apparently monsters made use of the less harsh conditions just like everyone else. He hadn't thought much of it when some villagers requested he get rid of the wyverns that kept making off with their livestock. Wyverns, plural. That should have made him more concerned than it did. They had pooled everything they had to be able to pay him something up front, but the amount had been a pittance and he had found himself taking a leaf out of Geralt's book, Pity for the Poor, and telling them he'd do it for free. They had been very grateful, and he had eaten very well that evening, and they restocked his supplies with good stuff. Plenty of oats for his horse as well.

Tracking flying beasts is a lot easier said than done, so it was more of an aimless trip through the landscape, while hoping he might find remains of their prey. He did. Frequently. It brought him from the foothills and higher into the mountains. Of course creatures like those would be nesting on an eyrie somewhere. Took him several days before he caught sight of a live wyvern. At least then he'd known he was on the right track.

That job had taken much longer than he'd expected and it had brought him much further into the mountains than he'd planned for. With a little cunning he had been able to single the beasts out one at a time, so he didn't have to take on all five together. Thank whatever gods had planned for stupid creatures like that. Made some things so much easier. When the last of them lay dead on the rocky out-cropping the fight had taken them to he was about ready to congratulate himself when Mantis whinneyed in alarm. He ran to the horse's aid, and not a moment too soon either. A royal wyvern had his steed backed onto a ledge that really was no place for a horse.

The profanities he'd shouted at the damned thing to get its attention away from his horse would probably have made a dock worker blush. At least it worked. He barely even remembered the fight itself. Exhaustion was tearing at him, and though all the little cuts from the previous fights weren't dangerous in and of themselves they were slowing him down. Considerably so. He did manage to manoeuvre the screeching thing around, so the horse could make a break for it and get off the ledge. But a royal wyvern is not the sort to just lie down and die quietly. He was whittling down its strength, but that was entirely mutual. The effect of his dose of Golden Oriole had long since worn off. Shit.

He was beginning to seriously doubt he'd get out of it alive. That at least lent him some resolve and he decided that if he were going to croak on this godsforsaken mountain side, then he'd take the damned thing with him. Going for its wings he made sure it definitely wouldn't be able to fly anymore. With a bit of clumsy shuffling he positioned himself just right to throw the both of them over the edge of the cliff. The Aard Sign had always been handy for such things.

Eskel could still recall the cold sensation of the air rushing past him when they fell. And the excruciating pain, when the sodding creature managed to gash him with its tail stinger. It had been accompanied by a dejected feeling of acceptance. So that was how it would end. It didn't, of course, but that was more luck than anything else. It was probably also luck that he didn't remember the impact nor the rest of the tumble down. He was fairly certain there was nothing good to remember about it.

Unconsciousness had been merciful, and waking up was definitely not. His head was pounding – not unlike after a decent bender. It had taken him a while to even notice that aside from the pounding inside his head there was something pulling his hair. Mantis. The mad horse had returned and was munching insistently on his hair, leaving dried up flakes of froth falling into his face. An attempt at lifting his head had made him lose consciousness again, but when his senses returned once more the damned horse was still there. Eskel tried to gather his wits and take stock of the situation. The royal wyvern was very, very dead and his torso and legs were stuck under its bulk. His left arm was broken. Bones had pierced the skin above his elbow, and he made a note of how the bleeding had at least slowed down. A small voice at the back of his mind pointed out that that might not be a good sign at all, and that he probably didn't have all that much blood left to bleed with. That voice was better left ignored.

He wasn't quite sure how he did it, but his right arm at least seemed moderately fine, and with a solid grip on Mantis' reigns, he got the horse to drag him out from under the carcass. The exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him again. His right side and thigh were torn to shreds. Probably where the stinger had gotten him during the fall. Shit. Shit. Shit. He'd begun to wish he'd just died in the fall, and he seriously started considering just grabbing a bottle of booze from his pack and drink himself to oblivion, while waiting for the blood loss and poison to kill him. Even if it didn't, there was no way he'd be able to find food and water in this condition. He'd starve to death before he'd be able to move around again. He cursed his rotten luck in as many colourful ways he could think of. The sound of his own voice hurt his ears and head. Of course. A concussion. If he hadn't hit his head on the way down that would've been a miracle.

Eskel wasn't in the miracle-business. With the way his head swam, he probably wouldn't even have been able to spell it.

Let it never be said he wasn't a stubborn old fuck, though. He called Mantis to his side again. The horse really did not appreciate being anywhere near the dead wyvern, but it had still remained by him, despite him being immobile and the carcass of a wyvern decorating the place. Treating an animal well earned you its friendship – so simple, really. Horses were so much easier to understand than people, he thought ruefully, as he attempted to raise himself up by leaning on the sturdy beast.

Two failed attempts and a lot of curses later he had flopped back onto the ground. That's when he noted his silver blade a few paces from where he was. Dragging him along was something he could easily get Mantis to do. Then at least he could die still in possession of both his swords and whatever little remained of his self-respect.

As he sheathed the argent blade with an awkward motion in his slumped and seated position, Mantis snorted and looked at him with baleful eyes. Did he seriously land himself a judgemental horse? He stared back at the beast – even standing this close to him, the horse seemed blurry and out of focus. Fuck him, he wasn't giving up just yet.

Much coaxing and cajoling later he'd gotten the stupid, brown beast to kneel down, so he could drag his more than half-dead self onto its back. The sudden movement as Mantis got back up left him woozy and his vision blacked out. It was all he could do to hold on to the saddle. There was no point to steering anyway. He had no idea what he was looking for – no clue how far he could get, nor what he'd have a chance of reaching before it was too late anyway. He let Mantis decide.

There was a flicker of light in the darkness. Eskel wasn't sure whether it was the darkness of his head or whether it was night. When had night fallen anyway? But there definitely was a flicker of light. To move towards it or not, that was the question. The decision was made for him, as the horse beneath his aching body calmly trudged in that direction. Right. It wasn't just in his head, then, if Mantis could see it too. Probably a camp-fire But whose?

Burning pain laced along his leg and he groaned. A low voice muttered something unintelligible. Was it himself? He attempted to move, but then his arm protested even worse. Oh right, broken. He'd forgotten. Mantis' huffing seemed loud in the stillness surrounding them. Then he felt himself begin to slide off the horse's back. No, no, not good, he was trying to get to... where was he going again? He struggled to stay on, but the pain was overwhelming his senses again. There was the low murmuring voice again. This time he could make out the words ”ploughing shit” among a longer string of muttered profanities that he couldn't keep track of. Probably his own voice, after all. He agreed whole-heartedly at least. He did feel like swearing profusely at his rotten luck. Then he slipped all the way off the horse's back, and his mind went white with pain once more.

He was lying on the ground again. Shit. Where was Mantis? There was no tugging on his hair this time. His left arm hurt. Badly. There was pressure on the joints – elbow and shoulder both – and then something twisted, and he writhed in response. A weight settled on his chest. He had trouble breathing. And then his arm was yanked once more, making his thoughts an incoherent jumble of rage and pain. He wasn't entirely sure, whether the roar he felt in his mind was just an intention or if he actually managed to voice it. Sweet, comfortable darkness engulfed him again.

His side hurt. Pain seared through him. Why did it feel worse now? Wasn't pain supposed to dull the closer you got to death? Eskel tried to gather his thoughts. Tendrils of darkness wafted through his mind, and he considered just relaxing into them. At least it might stop the pain. A different, stinging pain on his cheek brought him away from that idea. What? Fuck it. He didn't care anymore. He ignored it.

Three more slaps – for that's what they were – followed in rapid succession, bringing his consciousness to the forefront again. “Don't you fucking dare die on me now, witcher!” Well, that definitely wasn't him talking. “Stay awake!”

He attempted to open his eyes, but found he couldn't. He grunted in frustration. He wasn't lying flat on his back anymore. His torso was raised from the ground at an angle leaning against something. He couldn't quite tell what. Pain lanced through his side again, and a gasp escaped him.

“I know, I know. Sorry. Gotta get all the poison out before I patch you up.” He focused on the quiet, muttered words that seemed to come from so far away. There was something about the low tones that seemed... oh. Wait, what? A woman? In the middle of nowhere? He gathered all his remaining strength and managed to pry his eyes open. Just a crack. She was kneeling next to him, working quickly with a wash cloth and a bottle he couldn't see very well. Her long, dark hair was messy and dirty and obscured most of her face, he could only just see her profile as it was illuminated by the firelight. Fire. Camp-fire. So there had been a camp-fire And he was lying next to it. How did he get here? And why wasn't it warm? He was stark naked. He should be able to feel the heat on his skin. Wait – naked? How? When?

Another brush with the wash cloth burned the current thoughts from his mind, and when he gathered them again the woman was busy putting stitches in his side. He hadn't been around for the first many sets of them that much was clear. She noticed he was awake again.

“They won't be neat like a healer's, but they'll hold you together well enough while you regenerate.” Her tone seemed almost defiant, as if daring him to demand better. She didn't so much as look at him – well, she looked at the injury, but she never looked at his face. He couldn't blame her. Not really. At least this time his head seemed somewhat clearer, even if it still felt like a herd of cattle was stampeding inside it.

“Here. I imagine you're cold.” Still without looking at him, she handed him the bottle of spirits she'd used for cleaning the wound. He took it with a grunt that he hoped sounded as grateful as he meant it to. His tongue felt so thick in his mouth he wasn't even going to try words just yet. It wasn't 'til after the first few pulls of the bottle, when the pooling heat of intoxication had begun to build and spread from his stomach that he noticed his broken arm was wrapped up in extremely tight bandages, possibly with some improvised light splint included? And it definitely didn't look all broken and twisted anymore. Well, that at least explained some of the pains that had assaulted him while he was semi-conscious.

“Thank you,” he attempted to say, but it came out sounding more like “thanngghh”. The woman seemed to understand well enough, though, because he received a curt nod for his trouble. Alcohol was spreading through his system, and the pains and aches slowly became easier to tolerate. He still couldn't tell whether any heat was coming from the camp-fire, though. Blood loss was a stuck up bitch, who left a man cold as hell. He settled for just watching his rescuer work. Her fingers were short, and now that detailed sensation was slowly returning to his limbs, he could tell that they were calloused. Strong, too. The sure way she prodded at the mangled shreds of his skin to get it to settle in the position it was meant to left no doubts about that. An artisan of some kind maybe? Woodworker perhaps? Who knew how to stitch up wounds and set bones?

Eskel wondered who she was. And what. There was a gnawing worry at the back of his mind. He wasn't a small man by any means; moving and undressing him without making his injuries worse would have taken considerable strength. Or more than one person. He looked around, careful not to move his pained head too much, but he saw no one aside from the woman currently bent over his thigh. Looking back at her, it occurred to him that from his angle it looked almost like her gaze was focused on his dick. Shit. Kill that thought. Kill it now. Being naked there was no way he could hide the effects of that line of thinking, and he did not want to frighten off the one person whom he would depend on for his life for at least some days maybe even weeks yet. Not good. Bad, in fact. Think of something else. Wyverns. Royal wyverns. Royal pains in his arse. And his side. Dead wyverns – even more smelly than live ones.

The semi-panicked stream of thoughts was halted by a small sniff of satisfaction from his carer. “There.” She handed him a small potion vial, which he received with a sceptical look. “Swallow.”

He rolled his eyes. He knew what to do with a potion, but what the hell was a random stranger doing in possession of such a thing? “Whaddissit?” He slurred at her – not really sure whether it was from blood loss or alcohol by now.

The woman finally turned her head just enough to meet his eyes sideways. He barely heard her repeat the word “swallow”. He was much too stunned at looking into the familiar slitted pupils of a witcher.

“After all this trouble, I'm not gonna fucking poison you, you paranoid prat. Drink it, so we can eat and then get some sleep – preferably some time before dawn.”

He nodded mutely – in shock – instantly regretted the action as his head cruelly punished him for it and downed the potion. Quickly it became clear that she'd been telling the truth. The familiar sensation of his regenerative abilities intensifying their efforts to regrow lost tissue coursed through him. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and it always made him hungry like, well, like a wolf for both food and other things – that he really needed to not think about right now.

The strange witcheress reached behind her and brought forth his bedroll. She spread it out by the fire. “Didn't think you should bleed into it, but by now you're probably holding together well enough. Get yourself comfortable.” With that she got up and stepped over him to the fireside, shrugging her cloak off her shoulders and dropping it on top of him, giving him at least a little privacy. She crouched down by the fire and turned her attention to it. Eskel for his part managed to shuffle around and get on to the bedroll with the pile of blankets beneath his head and her heavy winter cloak covering him. He found that if he was really careful he could even put a slight bit of weight on his left arm without it protesting too much. He still had to be very careful with the stitches in his side, though. He could barely sit up, but at least he did not feel quite as poorly as he had.

Thus installed in slightly greater comforts he turned his attention back to the woman. Her lack of a cloak revealed her fairly unassuming garments; grey, woollen, belted tunic up top and dark leather trousers laced rather snugly around legs whose impressive muscle-tone showed through the material. Her crouch allowed him a rather generous view of her leather-encased ass. Fuck, he really should look away. With the pain-induced adrenaline, alcohol, as well as the effects of a Swallow he was in no position to fight down his body's reaction to a backside like that. He really needed to look away, there was no way he'd get out of this with any dignity left otherwise. At least the heavy cloak she'd dropped on him would hide the rather insistent boner he was sporting by now. And he was in no position to do anything about, well, anything really. Fuck his rotten luck. Even when he got lucky, he still had rotten luck.

She raked something large-ish out of the fire. Eskel had no idea what it might be, but then the sound of burnt clay cracking made him wince as his head protested at the sudden sound. Once his hearing and vision returned to normal again he could tell what it was. The delicious smell of cooked meat gave it away. At least one urge would be dealt with. There was plenty to be thankful for, it seemed.

The cooked birds came out of their clay-containers in pieces. His rescuer snorted lightly as the unrecognisable poultry fell apart completely. “I hope you aren't in need of tearing stuff apart with your teeth, wolf. This ended up cooking a bit longer than I intended. I hadn't exactly planned for complications of the social kind. I had to improvise something that wouldn't need my attention while I was stitching you together.”

He muttered a quiet apology, but didn't really know what else to say to her. When satisfied with her handiwork, she handed him a bowl of pulled meat that looked so deliciously tender he was pretty sure he could chew it with his eyebrows if he tried. Not one to stand on ceremony he dug in, stuffing some of it in his mouth. Then he coughed as the seasoning nearly made his eyes water. When he caught his breath again, he looked at her.

“The fuck is this?” He gasped pathetically.

“Spice mix from the South.” She explained. There was a slight curve at the corner of her mouth. “I'm rather fond of it – it helps you stay warm up here in the cold North.” Oh, he could believe that. His mouth felt like it was burning, but the heat did seem to spread out, and he was even beginning to feel the camp-fire’s heat as well. He didn't feel quite confident in his ability to speak without wheezing just yet, though.

“You build resistance to this stuff, so I spice my food a lot more, when I'm on my own.” She ducked her head slightly. “This mix wasn't meant for an unaccustomed palate. Sorry.”

“I'll live,” he ground out. It was actually really delicious, which he could appreciate now that he was prepared for the burn that followed. “You could have warned me.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Her teasing tone told him he ought to be cautious with anything she served. “And yes, you will. Live, I mean.” She agreed. “Though it was close for a while. Wasn't sure you'd make it.”

“Thanks.” He really couldn't say much else. “Huh, my things?”

She inclined her head towards a spot to the left of him, and this time he remembered to be careful when he turned his head. His clothes and armour were left in a heap – clearly discarded in a hurry. His medallion remained around his neck. His weapons, though, lay neatly arranged, well within his reach, and placed so he could easily reach over and draw a blade without having to adjust the angle. She had done everything to alleviate any paranoia he might develop. Damn, this woman knew her shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must direct a shout-out to MaevesChild for her fic [To Stay The Winter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4613397/chapters/10515126). That was what gave me the idea for Eskel to end up in dire straits, having to rely on the help of someone quite unusual. I took it in a different direction, mind, but she still deserves a mention for giving us an excellent and inspirational fic.


	3. Interlude 1

“So... who was she?”

Eskel had known Lambert wouldn't let it go. He had placed high hopes in alcoholic oblivion, but he knew it would be in vain. And here he was with the jackass predictably pestering him, while his skull throbbed and threatened to leave him by way of his ears – or so it felt anyway. Not unlike the way it had felt when he'd woken up to the female witcher patching his sorry hide together.

“If I tell you something will you leave it alone?”

“Depends on what you tell me.”

“Forget it then.”

“Oh all right, you grouch. Just gimme something, will you? Who was she?”

“Not entirely sure. Definitely from the South or South-East. I swear, she spiced her food with the fires of hell. Damn good in a fight. Damned good fuck, too.”

“And a witcher...”

He just nodded, turning his attention back on keeping his breakfast down.


	4. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains a sex scene. Fully consensual and semi-explicit as per the Mature-rating.

Eskel had wolfed down the generous helping of meat fast and unceremoniously only then realising just how hungry he had really been. He felt kind of guilty for not taking the time to really appreciate her cooking, but when he looked at her, she didn't seem fazed at all. She just kept her face turned to the fire and once in a while looked his way out the corner of her eye. Was it her way of offering him privacy? He couldn't tell. And he had no idea how to broach the subject.

“Hungry still?” She asked him. He wanted to nod, but he was well aware that this remaining craving wasn't for food, so instead he shook his head.

“I know what the Swallow does to the system, you know.” Of course she would. Her voice was completely neutral, he could read nothing from it, so he remained silent. “If the cloak isn't sufficient cover for you, I can take a walk, while you handle any remaining needs. Your gear needs washing anyway.”

He quietly debated what he preferred. Fuck, the truth was that he would much prefer it, if he could sink his cock into a willing woman – it twitched and hardened even further at the mere notion – but that probably wasn't an option. He looked back at his host – she seemingly hadn't looked away, and there was a speculative look in her eyes. Please let her be thinking what he was thinking? But she had already done so much for him, he couldn't really make himself ask more of her.

On the other hand, he didn't really want to be so pathetic that she would just figure everything out on her own. And there was no harm in asking; in taking some initiative. She could say no, curl her lip in disgust like they always did, and he could request the privacy she'd offered. He steeled himself and met her eye squarely. She'd saved his life, he could at least show her the respect of voicing his thoughts. Some of them anyway. Definitely not all of them. He didn't want to piss her off.

“I, uhhh,” he started, but trailed off as he felt his nerve slipping anyway.

She looked away and stood up. “It's fine, I'll give you some space. I'll go soak your gear.” Shit, she misinterpreted his hesitation.

“No, wait,” he stopped her. “Save that for daylight. I'm fine with you staying.” Brilliant, you oaf, that the best you can do? He berated himself.

She didn't look at him, but she did crouch down again. Come to think of it, he hadn't actually seen her sit down properly, she'd been crouched and sitting on the balls of her feet all the time. Damn, no wonder her legs were so fine – did she never relax them? He could see contours of muscle along her thighs and damn him if he didn't want to run his hands over them – see if they were as hard as they looked. He had to say something if he wanted to move this forward in the direction he really wanted.

“You know what the potion does. Bet you also know it's more fun with a partner.” Fuck, that was pathetic. He needed to get himself together if he didn't want to make a complete arse of himself. And he didn't.

She looked at him – still out the corner of her eye. Yeah, she definitely wasn't surprised at that comment. That brought his confidence somewhat back to normal, which didn't say much in these situations. His face wasn't exactly that of a charmer. At least this woman was a witcher – somehow – she'd have seen much worse. And she was still watching him. Warily now, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why that might be. It's not like he was in any kind of condition to do her any harm.

“You're asking me to join your fun.” She stated flatly, before he could gather enough wits about him to say anything more.

“Won't be real fun on my own. Just routine.”

A huff of quiet laughter escaped through her nose.

“I know, I'm not much to look at,” he shrugged helplessly, “but that doesn't-”

“That's not a problem for me.” She interrupted him. “I was mostly wondering whether you'd be as much of a hypocrite as most others I've met.”

“The fuck did that come from? What are you talking about?” He bristled at the suggestion. Granted, he might be many unflattering things, but at least he'd like to think hypocrite wasn't one of them.

“I'm a witcher. Like yourself.” He snorted a little as she stated the obvious. “Have you ever met a witcher with some years under his belt, who didn't also belong to the Fraternity of Fucked-up Faces?”

Eskel stared at her for a split second, processing what she'd said. The Fraternity of... what? And then he laughed. Laughed so hard he regretted it, when his stitches made him groan in pain. When he caught his breath again, his companion was sitting in the exact same position, still only glancing at him sideways, but there was a definite smile there now. Even if it was just a cautious hint of one.

“The Fraternity of Fucked-up Faces.” He repeated her term still laughing and wincing in pain. “I gotta remember that. Lambert'll love it.”

He got another of her soft snorts in response and desperately fought down further laughter.

“You're right. I would be a hypocrite if a Fucked-up Face,” he chuckled again as he emphasized the term, “turned me off. I'd also be a damn fool, 'cause from what I can tell you have legs and an ass to kill for.” He made sure to let his appreciative glance be really obvious to her.

This time she responded by moving her loose hair back behind her ear. Or rather what remained of her ear. Even in the flickering firelight he could tell that the left side of her throat and head had been burned badly once. Her ear was there all right, but it looked partially melted. Damn, that must have hurt. When she turned fully towards him he almost thought it was a bad joke the fates played on him. He knew he looked frightening when he smiled, so he usually didn't in unfamiliar company, but he just couldn't help it right now. This was either tragically hilarious. Or hilariously tragic. He couldn't decide.

“So how about that,” he mused out loud. “We have matching Fucked-up Faces. You seriously thought that would be a problem?”

She blinked; stunned, but the expression was quickly replaced with one of bitterness. “You wouldn't have been the first owner of a mangled cheek to find that particular trait undesirable in a partner.”

He reached for her then, though his injury prevented him from moving a great deal. Dammit, there would be a lot of things he'd like to do to this woman that he'd have to forego. She came to him instead, and sat crouched by his side where he sat. From these positions it had him looking up at her, he wasn't used to that. She reached behind his head and gently felt up the back of his skull. It was still throbbing with pain, but she smiled slightly, though it didn't quite seem to reach her eyes.

“Feels like the bone is knitting together all right.”

“What?” Now she had just managed to confuse him again.

“Your skull was fractured. I was worried about that, because that's an injury I could do nothing about.”

“My skull was... shit. That explains a lot.”

“Yes, when your horse brought you here, you were bleeding out your ears. Your skull was, indeed, shit. I'm actually kind of impressed you feel good enough to fuck already. That's soon even for a witcher,” she finished with a wry smile.

“Well,” he sent her what he hoped she'd interpret as a lewd grin, “my dick doesn't seem to want to give me a choice.” She laughed a little at that – even if it was still just through her nose. Good. Time to do something about it. “So, are you gonna join me or what?”

She pinned him with a hard stare. “On one condition.”

Oh, for fuck's sake. Couldn't they just get on with it? “What?” He asked irritably.

“You stay the fuck down and let me do the moving around. With your arm broken, so many stitches in your side, and not the reliable kind from a healer either, as well as a skull that's seen better days, you will remain right where you are, all right?”

He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. As hideous as he knew it was, he nonetheless felt his grin widen involuntarily, and he finally gathered enough courage to reach out and touch her. He might not be able to lean much on his left arm, but he could move it around just fine if he was careful, so he placed his hand on her knee and slid it slowly up her thigh, revelling in the feel of it underneath the thick leathers until he reached around and cupped her ass cheek. Tight muscles flexed a little beneath his fingers as she adjusted her balance. Maybe his luck wasn't as rotten as he'd first thought.

“There's a sexy as fuck woman telling me to lie back and relax, while she takes care of my needs.” He would definitely accept her terms. “What man in his right mind would object?”

She smirked at him and stood up.

He barely had time to lament the loss of contact with her, before she'd dragged her tunic over her head, and shimmied out of her boots, trousers and small-clothes. She joined him under the cloak and immediately straddled him and pushed him back and down. Something familiar tickled his brain.

“You straddled me before...” he said, as he let his hands slide along her thighs. He'd been right. Hard muscles. Most women he'd known had been soft and supple, even if he didn't enjoy such company very often. This one was something else. Soft layer of skin, sure, but underneath was a core of steel.

“Yes, you didn't take well to me setting your bone. Your thrashing wouldn't have been good for your head, so I had to restrain you.”

He nodded, only half ways listening, his thoughts were fast evacuating his mind. The feel of her body beneath his hands had him distracted, and he reached around to cup her ass with both hands. He noticed a substantial amount of scar tissue on her left side, but didn't mention it. Talk was for later. She was obviously already familiar with his body having just patched it up, so she seemed content to allow him his exploration of hers. Solidly built even if she did seem rather gaunt – oh well, a witcher's life was tough – rock hard abs, broad shoulders, arms and hands with visible veins and corded muscle; everything you might expect in a witcher, except this one was female with the complimentary narrow waist, nice, small and firm tits and the aforementioned ass and legs to kill for. She was a living contradiction and he loved the feel of her strength beneath his own calloused hands.

He did gather his wits about him sufficiently to make sure she got properly in the mood as well. Wouldn't be any fun otherwise. And he couldn't just leave all the work to her, even if she wouldn't allow him to get up. He could still pull her down to him and make sure she didn't get left out, not to mention fingering her until he wasn't the only one out of breath. He did want to make sure she was rather needy herself, before he let her sit up to do her thing. It took surprisingly little time before she was making little involuntary movements against his hands, and he briefly wondered just what kinds of thoughts she'd entertained while she patched his naked self back together.

When she finally sank down on him they moaned in unison. Warm, wet, tight. Fuck. He felt her hands carefully find purchase on his chest well above his injury, and then she started moving. Fuck, did she move. He felt her nails digging into his skin as she kept a steadily increasing pace. And she did things with her internal muscles. Magical things, he was sure. Was that even possible for anyone who wasn't a succubus? Might as well have been magic. In the brief moments when his vision actually worked, he looked up at the woman above him. Wild, dirty, fierce, scarred. Her appearance stirred something primal in him and it took every shred of willpower he could muster not to flip them over and take her violently right then and there.

Eskel grabbed her hips; tight and hard, just like she clenched around him. He had to fight down the urge to thrust up into her. He didn't want to risk his stitches, but fuck it was hard to not just let go. The beast in him clawed at the edges of his mind, egging him on. When finally they both came, it was with simultaneous snarls that only dimly registered in his mind as his vision went blank.

When it returned again, the woman was still sitting on him, though she'd moved her hands next to his head instead, and she was studying his face. As their eyes met he was somewhat taken aback by the steely look in her eyes, but her smirk didn't seem to hint at any looming betrayal. She sat back and prodded carefully at the stitches with a look of concentration on her face. Eskel absent-mindedly let his hands roam up and down her thighs again and found his fingers tracing a deep furrow of scar tissue running the length of the back of her left thigh. It reached all the way back to her ass and a short ways up her back. He hadn't noticed the shape of it before.

“Don't worry,” she told him, “yours will heal better than that. That's what these are for.”

He had nothing but a derisive snort for that. “Bit too late to concern myself with my looks.”

A sharp look and a grim, one-sided grin was what he got for that. “I like 'em,” she stated simply. He didn't know what to say to that, but she didn't seem to expect any response.

She finished her poking of his injury and seemed satisfied that her handiwork had held through their impromptu fuck and got off him. He sat up and pulled the cloak around him. He was warm now, better make sure to stay that way. When she turned her back he could see the furrowed gash he'd traced. The flickering light from the fire made the scar stand out as a shadowed valley in her skin. Shit. That wound had been deep, and it really hadn't healed well at all. “What got its claws in your back?” He asked her before he could think twice about it. He still had a hard time taking his eyes off her ass. It drove him to distraction.

“Cemetaur. I was young. Had only expected a few ghouls, maybe a graveir. Got the whole family and then some. Nasty surprise, that. And no one to put me back together.”

He nodded and silently lamented that she put her trousers back on. “That's a witcher's lot, I guess. I came here for a few wyverns. Was surprised by their royal cousin.”

She grinned darkly at that. “Yeah, I figured a wyvern might be involved. Poison gave it away. And this **is** wyvern country.” Quick hands fastened the belt, cinching the thick material of the tunic to her waist. Then she threw him a water skin. “Drink. All of it. Every last drop. Then get some sleep.”

He obediently did as he was told and then lay down and rolled himself into the layers of cloth, thankful for the cloak's addition to his usual bedroll. Without any clothes on he'd need it to stay warm. There was something to be said for the winter being as mild as it had been so far.

“Goodnight, wolf.” The muffled voice sounded from the other side of the camp-fire. It was jarring to hear the term he mostly associated with Geralt be used about himself, but she probably found it perfectly logical to address him according to his school.

“Goodnight, yourself.” He mumbled back at her, slightly annoyed that he hadn't thought to take note of her own affiliation.


	5. Interlude 2

“Heh. Didn't know there were any female witchers.”

“Me either.”

“I've heard it was tried, but all the hopefuls invariably died, so it was given up. You absolutely sure?” Lambert interrogated him further.

Eskel just sent him his usual annoyed look – as if he wouldn't be able to tell a witcher from... whatever else a person could be. “Fuck off, Lambert. I know a witcher when I see one.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that, brother. It's the female part I worry about.”

Eskel really hoped Lambert's head hurt as much as his own did, because that thought made it so much more satisfying when his empty mug sailed smack into the git's face, the surprise of it knocking him backwards off the bench.

When he got back up and dusted himself off, Lambert managed to look only slightly annoyed.

“Sensitive subject?”

“Can't **you** tell the difference between a man and a woman, Lambert? Want me to explain?”

A familiar obnoxious grin spread on Lambert's face and Eskel sighed. The younger witcher seemed to enjoy receiving insults as much as flinging them – especially when everybody was hung over.


	6. Chapter 3

When Eskel woke again it was to the sound of the witcheress dumping something next to the camp-fire.

On a make-shift structure of branches his clothes, as well as what he assumed to be some of hers, were drying by the fire's heat – just about completely dry by the look of it. How long had he been out now? He groaned as he sat up, careful not to stretch anything that shouldn't be stretched nor jostle anything that shouldn't be jostled. Looking at the woman again he saw her looking back at him. When their eyes met she gave him a quick nod. Yeah, she was a witcher all right – he definitely hadn't hallucinated those eyes last night. Her hair was a lot cleaner now, though, but still dark. Almost black. And tied back in the customary, partial ponytail both Vesemir and Geralt favoured. It made her look almost familiar in a sense.

He lifted the cloak to take stock of his injuries. Everything still hurt, but it had dulled into the pain of the healing process rather than anything immediately life-threatening. He'd be fine eventually, but it would definitely take more than just a few days before he would be fighting anything again. And he was utterly famished, even to the point of feeling weak.

“Your brigandine's fine. Probably saved your internal organs. Your shirt and trousers will definitely need some mending,” she commented from where she was crouched by her make-shift drying rack.

He grunted. “That'll give me something to do while waiting for this old carcass to decide to cooperate again.”

“I, uhhh, took a liberty while you were out cold.” He glanced up at her sharply at that. She looked slightly apprehensive. Shit, what had she done? Did he even want to know? “I didn't know how long you'd be out, so I figured I'd better clean your weapons.”

He stared. That was it? Really? She was nervous about that? After she'd screwed him silly, she thought he'd be mad about that?

“I know, I probably shouldn't have,” she continued apologetically. “I'm kinda sensitive about my weapons, too. I just didn't want you to wake up to useless tools of the trade, 'cause that's-”

Eskel forced his sluggish mind to start working again and interrupted her. “It's fine. Thanks. For cleaning, uhhh, everything, it seems.”

She nodded, and though she tried to hide it, he could tell she was relieved. “No problem. I needed to clean up my own shit as well. It was long overdue.” For some reason Eskel thought there was more to that sentence than just the face value, but he couldn't begin to guess what might be going on behind the cool expression in her eyes.

“Wait, how long was I out?” He wasn't sure he wanted to answer to that, either.

“Couple o' days.”

Fuck. No wonder he felt like he could eat a horse, then. “And before that?”

“'bout a day in and out of consciousness while I waited for your wound to show itself completely free of poison before sewing you up.”

That had merely felt like the blink of an eye to him. He let out a stream of creative curses under his breath and heard a faint chuckle from his strange companion. Right, she could hear that of course.

“Please tell me you haven't spent all that time just looking at my ugly mug,” he joked. He wanted to get her talking. Find out who she was.

It was an odd look she sent him, but she did at least answer. “I went and reset my traps and snares. Twice a day – both days. When I still wasn't sure you'd make it. We'll need to eat; especially you. I've gotten water into you, while you were out, but no food. And I haven't got supplies for two anyway.”

It wasn't until then he noticed that it was a pair of rabbits and handful of birds she'd dumped by the fire. Damn, he was dangerously inattentive. Hopefully that wouldn't be a permanent effect of his head injury.

“Anything I can do to help, just sitting here?”

“You could tell me where you killed those wyverns. It's been a few days by now, but in the cold weather there should still be meat left on them that's edible. Would make for a decent change in diet.” He wasn't sure he liked the slightly predatory gleam in her eyes as she said that. Then again, his own hunger probably gave him a somewhat similar look.

Since he didn't know where they were right now, he had no idea how far away it was, but he tried to describe the precipice, where he'd found the nest. She nodded slowly, clearly going over his information and mapping out a route in her mind.

“I think I know where that might be.” She got up and removed her leathers from the drying rack. Her grey woollen tunic came off and was replaced by a thinner one. On top of that went the form-fitting hardened leathers – and what a form they covered. His thoughts slipped back to how she rode him and found himself distracted again. Finally she put the thick tunic on top of it all. As much as he liked the view without the woollen cloth, he didn't begrudge her putting it on. It would definitely not do for her to freeze, just because he had a temporary need of her cloak.

“Feel free to skin and cook those,” she nodded at the small game and then at a cloth roll with utensils a few feet from the fire. “Skewers and spits are in that. Or you can just add the bits to the stew over the fire. I've kept it going for the past day to have something I might be able to feed you, should you not have woken up. The seasoning should be mellow enough by now that you won't choke on it.” Eskel was impressed. Not only had he landed with someone who had the means to patch him up, she was resourceful in several ways, it seemed. Since he didn't bother with religious tripe he wasn't sure who he ought to apologize to for cursing his rotten luck. This time his luck had been quite the opposite, it seemed.

His new acquaintance seemed satisfied with the state in which she'd be leaving him and their things. It felt odd to watch someone else gear up for trouble and not do the same himself. He didn't like that feeling. Useless was not a good feeling. Definitely not.

“You can take Mantis for the trek, if you want.” He offered her by way of contributing with something – anything.

“No thanks. I prefer walking. And if you're going to sleep for a full day again, your well-bred horse there might serve to alert you of danger, should it arise. I'll probably only be gone for four days, maybe five.” Odd of her to turn down the option of riding, but her reasoning was sound and he didn't want to press the matter. “Think you can manage stoking the fire and keeping yourself fed?”

He nodded and grinned lewdly at her. “Yeah. I think I can keep a fire burning.”

“Try not to exert yourself too much.” There was an undertone of laughter in her voice.

“Hey, a fire stays put, won't need to catch it,” he punned badly with as dry a voice as he could manage.

“Believe me, wolf. You do not want to catch fire.” There was a dark look in her eyes as she suited up with an assortment of long daggers, a crossbow and a large bag. Well, so much for conversation, Eskel groused silently as he watched her retreating back. He wasn't even sure, whether she had just found his joke un-amusing or whether she had warned him about something too subtle for his concussed brain to process. It was probably the former; he'd seen her neck and ear the other night. It still didn't seem like quite enough of an explanation, though, and she gave no indications of anything as she marched out of his line of sight. He heard the soft crunch of her boots in the grass disappear away from their camp.

No longer distracted by the shapely form of his unexpected companion he finally took the time to really look around and take in their surroundings. She had chosen an excellent spot for her camp-site. It was a ruin of a house, roof long gone, and one corner of the structure had completely collapsed leaving them with a big opening through which the side of a mountain could be seen. Through the door in one of the remaining walls – the one through which she'd disappeared – he could glimpse woodland and grass.

Mantis stood out there on the grass as if nothing untoward had ever happened. It was clear that the witcheress had left him to roam as he pleased. Good faithful horse that one was. Ah, wait, she had thought to hobble him, Eskel noticed the ropes around Mantis' legs. He could roam, but not run. Good thinking. Once again he had to conclude this woman knew her shit.

Saddle, bags and everything else lay stored neatly tucked along a wall and a cover thrown over the lot. A neat stack of firewood with plenty still left for them to rely on, and she had a sack of apples as well to keep scurvy at bay. The more he looked around at how she'd stored her own gear, the more it became clear that this was a semi-permanent camp-site. He should ask her about that when she returned.

As the evening passed into night, he had skinned and filleted the little animals she'd brought him. They would keep him fed, albeit sparsely, for only two days if he rationed them carefully. He'd definitely have to avail himself of the stew, even if it was spiced with powdered death. She had been right about the need for bigger and better fare, but he'd be fine. If his body was to have a decent chance at restoring all his lost blood and growing flesh and bones whole again, he'd definitely need something more substantial. And much to his chagrin, he would have to depend on her to supply it. At this point he still became exhausted just by focusing his thoughts for too long at a time – not to mention how his head began pounding to the point of nausea, whenever he tried to focus his eyes on something for more than a few seconds. At least he'd already killed the wyverns, so she shouldn't have any trouble picking up anything from them – if there was anything at all left that was worth picking up.

These would be a terrible few days. Bored out of his skull, and the only company for miles had left to ensure they wouldn't starve. Now all he needed was a wandering critter with ill intent, 'cause he was in no condition to defend himself. With his luck.... no, he really should stop cursing his luck. He was alive against all odds, and his horse had brought him to probably the only person within several miles who could help with such injuries. Not to mention **would** help him. Not everybody would be inclined to aid a witcher in need. Not these days, when people had begun to forget how important his brethren had once been for their safety.

Eskel's morose thoughts turned into troubled dreams, and he wasn't terribly well-rested when he awoke the following day – or at least he thought it was the following day; he couldn't tell whether he felt so famished because he'd slept a full day, or just because his body was struggling to heal itself. The dreams were quickly forgotten, but that familiar lingering sense of danger niggled at the corners of his consciousness all day. Meditation didn't help much – it required too much focus and concentration for his head to tolerate it just yet. Ploughing concussion and all. For the same reason mending his clothes took far longer than it should have, but at least he would have wearable trousers by the time his new acquaintance made it back to camp. With his need for frequent breaks he expected to finish work on them on the third day – or would it be the fourth? – more or less the same time he could begin to expect her back. The interesting part would be, whether he'd be able to put them on without tearing out his stitches.

Another night. More disconcerting dreams leaving him with nothing but vague glimpses of unidentifiable scenes and ghostly apparitions slipping between his fingers, when he tried to focus on them. He slept too little because of it, and was thus no less bleary-eyed the next morning. But at least he'd be done sooner with restoring his gear to a more useful condition.

There was something about the witcheress that bothered him. And unlike what she'd said she expected from people – expectations he knew well – it had nothing to do with her face. He knew well enough that a marred face said nothing about the wearer's character. No, it was something else. But he knew he was often the overly cautious one expecting and preparing for the worst, so he tried to be his most sensible self and fought down the sense of impending doom even though it intensified tenfold, when she eventually showed up at the camp; she didn't carry the witcher's customary twin long blades and she wore no medallion.

No witcher ever willingly parted with his medallion, so why had she?

Eskel worried and ruminated. More than usual, even.


	7. Interlude 3

“Seriously? Are you telling me, there's a woman out there with a face as ugly as yours?” Lambert sounded incredulous.

“I didn't say that, you dumb-ass drowner” Eskel corrected him. “I said hers was as scarred as mine. Not as ugly.”

“Same thing in my book, my testy friend.”

Sometimes he really wished he could silence Lambert with a glare.

“What's the same thing?” Geralt's tired voice sounded from behind him. Oh great, just what he needed: to be ganged up on. Why did he even get out of bed this morning?

“Why, Eskel was just telling me about this witcher he mentioned last night. The one he bedded. The one he claims was female.” There would be no end to Lambert's mockery. He knew that and he hated the younger witcher a little bit for it. But he could bear it. He always did. They handled their bitterness and anger in different ways; he ruminated, Lambert mocked and Geralt... well, Geralt compensated by alternating between epic fights with either sorceresses or monsters. Since Geralt was here Yenn must have finished shouting at him.

Geralt flopped down on the bench next to Eskel, misery etched on his face. He didn't look like Yenn had allowed him much sleep that night.

“There are no female witchers. The Trial always killed the hopefuls. They stopped trying eventually.”

“I'm telling you. Witcher. And female. Definitely female.” Eskel helplessly insisted, and emphasized his words by indicating an hourglass shape with his hands. Then he added glumly: “Not that it matters. It was a long time ago.”

“How convenient for you,” Lambert taunted.

“Not really. Wouldn't mind some of that ass again.”

“And what was the same thing?” Geralt mostly just looked confused.

“Lambert's just being nice and helpful, reminding me how ugly this face is.” Eskel gestured at his face as he'd done so many times.

“That's me. I'm such a good friend. Wouldn't want you to forget.”

“No risk of that, you limp dick. And you called her ugly in the same stroke. You sure you wanna go down that road?”

“Ohhhhh, defending her honour now?”

Eskel scoffed.

Geralt looked back and forth between them and rolled his eyes. “You kids keep at it. I'm going back to sleep. Try and be done with this, when I wake up again.”

He left them to it, but didn't head to the room he'd shared with Yenn instead opting for the cots nearby. Eskel would much rather Lambert had left and Geralt stayed. This was definitely one of those items on the list of things he'd prefer not to discuss with the dung heap across from him.

“You **are** defending her honour! Eskel, Eskel. You liiiiiike her!”

“Of course I do. She saved my life, you goon.”

“With her face?”

Glaring never helped with Lambert, but he tried anyway. It was in vain. As expected. He briefly debated whether he should throw something else at his head, but Lambert saw him eyeing the bottles they'd emptied last night and pre-emptively moved further away. Eskel sighed and shook his head instead.


	8. Chapter 4

He had managed to get dressed, when she'd returned to the camp. She'd let her eyes roam over him, clothed as he was in trousers and her cloak. The fire kept his still naked torso warm, while he was patching up his shirt. He could have sworn her gaze had been appreciative, though she had kept it brief and had averted her eyes before it had become awkward. An odd experience for him; he was definitely unused to that sort of attention from a woman. They usually took one look at his face and bolted. Then again from what she'd indicated, she wasn't much used to the attention he'd given her either. He shook those thoughts out of his head. The moment had been fleeting, and he was still suffering the after-effects of a bad concussion. He had probably imagined the whole thing.

Eskel stopped what he was doing and quickly offered to take some of her load off her hands. A grateful smile and a nod was followed by another two handfuls of little feathered creatures in need of preparing.

“I haven't reset the snares this time. Plenty of meat still on those wyverns. Weather's just cold enough for it to have kept decently. Well, parts of it, anyway. I got some choice cuts. We'll fry it or smoke it, and then we'll be set for at least two weeks if we ration it sensibly – maybe even three.”

She laid aside her weaponry and started unpacking the now heavy bag. Many smaller wrapped packages of more or less neatly cut pieces of meat emerged from its depths. She was clearly used to stocking her own supplies. That was interesting – mostly he just bought what he needed in the villages he passed through. He worked for people anyway, so he would always swing by settlements and such. This woman was clearly knowledgeable when it came to spending considerably more time on her own. He wondered at that. A witcher's Path was often a lonely one, but not necessarily **that** lonely. Not even for him. Why would anyone choose to walk an even lonelier road than necessary?

Eskel turned his attention back to the bird in his hands. “Many innkeepers pay good money for wyvern steaks for their more discerning customers,” he pointed out to see if it might get her talking.

She shrugged in response. “I have no need of their gold. We, however, will need the food. Especially in the coming days.”

“Hmm?” He had no idea what she might be referring to.

“Haven't spent time star gazing the past couple of nights?” She smirked at him. He decided that the cheeky smirk really suited her. It lent a somewhat lighter streak to offset her otherwise drawn and tired looks. Not to mention the severe scarring.

He snorted at her question. “Not really the type.”

“You don't seem it,” she readily acknowledged, “but it's still a good idea to look skyward once in a while.”

While they were talking her hands never stopped moving. In fact, **she** never stopped moving. Always shifting her balance back and forth, one foot to the other and back, while setting up skewers with wyvern meat over the fire. She seemed to be a bundle of caged energy. Eskel couldn't help his small smile at the thought of what she'd used that energy for the other night. Best not go down that road now however pleasant the thoughts of it might be. They had things to do, and a conversation to keep up, and she definitely wasn't forthcoming. Any information he wanted, he would seemingly have to drag it out of her.

He threw his hands wide, leaving a small spattering of blood between himself and the campfire. “All right, all right, I get it. I've missed something. You gonna tell me what it is?”

She cast only a sidelong glance at him this time. “There have been stars to see,” she stated as if that somehow explained everything. He looked at her expectantly, and she continued without further prompting: “Nights are getting colder. I was higher up on the mountain side. Noticed some clouds in the distance. Didn't like the look of them.”

“Bit of weather's nothing we can't handle.” He shrugged and didn't quite see why it concerned her so. They were witchers – the hardiest folk around by all accounts.

“You say that now, but if I'm right and that's a blizzard coming, you'll need to be elsewhere, because you still can't move around sufficiently to stay warm in one.”

“You think there's a blizzard coming...” All right, maybe not quite hardy enough for that, he conceded inwardly.

“I'm not sure, wolf, but I'm going to prepare for the eventuality. I didn't go through all that trouble to prevent your ass from bleeding out just to lose you to the wrath of the fucking season.”

He had to laugh at that. At least it didn't hurt his side as much as it had the first time he'd done that after waking up. “Staking a claim, are you?”

She sent him a very odd look that he couldn't read. “You have a death wish?” Her tone was serious, close to flat, and the look in her eyes was sharp, evaluating, but not judgemental in any way; as if she actually considered the possibility and would take it seriously. The thought gave him pause. He wasn't even sure whether her question referred to death by blizzard or death by her hand for insinuating something between them.

A slow shake of his head refuted the suggestion. He did not want to risk riling her up, as long as he had no idea what to expect from her nor was in much of a condition to defend himself. “Name's Eskel, by the way.”

She shrugged returning her focus to the meat and skewers.

“You have a name?” He pressed on carefully keeping his tone light.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't.” What the ploughing fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Come on, I have to call you something,” he insisted.

She shrugged again. “Don't care much for names, wolf.” He didn't miss the slight gleam of threat in her eyes this time either. Nor her continued use of her chosen nickname for him. Damn, she insisted on keeping her distance. It would be hard getting anything out of her, and for some reason that disappointed him more than it should.

Eskel sighed and returned his attention to the fowl. Frequently he looked back at her, and once in a while he caught her looking at him with a guarded expression. What did she have to hide that was so bad that she didn't even want to tell him her name?

It occurred to him as he finished cleaning the last of the small game and looked over at her again. She was cleaning her weapons – and they'd clearly seen some use while she'd been gone. It weren't the traditional witcher's blades. He hadn't even seen if she had any. If she did, she'd left them behind when picking up the wyvern meat, and he'd thought it was because she'd just be looking up a dead monster and didn't need anything bigger than her long daggers. Long daggers. Lightly armoured. Lithe. Agile.

Shit. It couldn't be. She couldn't be. Why would one of them save his sorry hide? He couldn't be sure, of course, but his growing suspicions regarding her affiliation had him thinking of the Cats. It would even explain why she hadn't let him see her medallion. It would be to protect herself from any potential vengeance he might exact upon her. It all fit so smoothly together, he wondered how he hadn't figured it out sooner. Seeing her fight would settle any last doubts he had, but he was already pretty sure that his rescuer was from the School of the Cat. What the hell did he do about that? If anything at all?


	9. Interlude 4

“The Cat School.” Lambert stated flatly. “Oh, Geralt's gonna love that.”

“For good reason, too. I'm not exactly fond of them either,” Eskel shot back, annoyed that Lambert implied their conversation wasn't private – even if it was just Geralt he was talking about.

“There are exceptions, though. To the general rule about them being bad news, I mean. I've known one.” It was an awkward, halting peace-offering from the younger witcher and they both knew it. But it was there and that mattered more than a little to Eskel. As annoying as Lambert could be, he wasn't entirely unreasonable.

“Yeah, she mentioned something along those lines, as well.”

“And you believe her? That she's one such exception?” For once Lambert's questioning didn't sound taunting, but seemed to express genuine curiosity.

Eskel found it difficult to meet his friend's eyes. “She made it pretty clear that she didn't consider herself an exception to that rule.”

“And you ploughed her anyway. Eskel, Eskel, the things I never knew about you...”


	10. Chapter 5

The as yet nameless witcheress spent much of the afternoon fixing up the meat and preparing it for rationing. Eskel didn't doubt that she meant every word of it, when she told him she suspected a blizzard. Her preparations were definitely genuine enough, and she herself was focused on her task to the point of being forbidding and short with him if he made further attempts at conversation. Either his question about names had bothered her more than he'd thought, or the prospects of a blizzard worried her more than she let on. All her movements were measured and efficient, and once again Eskel noted her seemingly perpetual restlessness.

After setting up the improvised smoke rack, she set about making a new batch of stew. Chopping up the vegetables she intended for it didn't take her long, and they were ready only shortly after Eskel had the meat prepared for searing. A few quick stirs later she added water and spices and left it simmering over the fire. Leaning back on her haunches she stared first at the fire and the pot and then glanced intently at him. Considering. He looked straight back at her, and they studied each other without comment. It was probably the longest stretch of time Eskel had seen her sit still, even if she did not quite relax. The longer they sat there the harder it became for him to keep from glowering at her. He was used to being stared at. It was either cause to hide and not make people uncomfortable, or it was cause to scowl at people and intimidate them into staying out of his path. But not this; hers was a scrutiny the purpose of which he couldn't discern.

He figured if she wanted to say something she would simply do so, and if not prodding her might just annoy her. So far her moods had been oddly mercurial, and he definitely wasn't going to push his luck. She had saved his life and seemed to have every intention of helping him along, and his suspicions about her notwithstanding, the fact that he couldn't seem to get a read on her unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Thus far it had given her the upper hand, because he'd been in a downright terrible state. He had to find out more about her. Especially why she didn't want him to know who she was.

Eskel never had any real need to engage in pissing contests; friendly competition about pretty much anything was fine, but getting territorial about things was not his style. Nonetheless, their little staring contest felt exactly like a pissing contest to establish pecking order. With no way of knowing the terms, the stakes nor the prize he couldn't even tell, whether he might prefer to pretend being an adult about it and not dignify it with a real effort. Instead he opted for the same kind of distanced, expectant neutrality that he would employ, when waiting out Lambert's annoying mannerisms. Not quite sensing what was really happening between them, he couldn't rightly say what the outcome had been either, when she abruptly stood up, walked over and crouched beside him.

“Show me.” A gesture with her hand indicated his right side.

Eskel smiled to himself; this, at least, he knew what was about. Practical things were easier to deal with. He leaned back a little, drew the cloak away from his side and let her have the requested look. The precise, almost clinical movements of her fingers disappointed him slightly. He would have preferred something more than this completely impersonal interaction, but she didn't seem inclined to get to know him, nor let him get to know her. He'd just have to resign himself to the fact that what they did the other night had been a sympathy fuck. A good one, mind, but nonetheless not something she'd done because she'd actually wanted him. Nothing new under the sun.

“How's your head?” Apparently she was happy enough with the stitches in his side, and now she was carding her fingers through his hair to feel the back of his skull again. He had to concentrate hard not to lean into her touch. His half-hearted attempts at hiding it probably failed. She'd already proven herself quite observant, and he wondered why he even bothered to try. Shit, he really was starved of some human attention. Or human-ish, anyway; the status of witchers in that regard was debatable. They couldn't even agree amongst themselves.

“Doesn't hurt all the time anymore. Only when I concentrate too hard on something. Fucking concussion.”

“Yeah, they're a bother. I know.” She replaced the cloak over his shoulders and moved around his back. His suspicions about her made all his instincts scream at him to not take his eyes off her. They were rudely ignored. Twice she had stated that she wasn't gonna let him die after saving his life, and since that did seem reasonable and logical, he decided to trust her on that at least. Not having eyes on her still made his skin crawl, though.

“D'you have normal movement in your hand and fingers?”

He turned his head sharply to look at her. Too sharply. Pain shot through his skull and throbbed behind his eyes making him swallow a pained grunt. “Bit shaky, but nothing worrying. It hasn't bothered me,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “I've been able to fix up my shit well enough, I suppose.”

Her narrowed eyes told him she'd noticed what had happened, but she didn't comment. “Good. With your regeneration the splint might not be absolutely necessary anymore. It was a nice, clean break. Easy to set. Ehm, relatively anyway. Wanna see how it looks?”

“Sure. Can only be better than last I saw it. Bones really don't look flattering on the outside,” he joked with the best offended sniff of disapproval he could manage.

She quirked an eyebrow in amusement. The one-sided movement made her already lop-sided face look, well, about as frightening as his own did, he assumed. He held her gaze again. Among witchers a steely and neutral look wasn't exactly unusual, but this woman's eyes seemed almost dead much of the time. Alert and shrewd, true, and it was plain that there was plenty going on inside her mind, but her eyes still seemed devoid of emotional life, and the couple of times he'd noticed they didn't, it was because she had looked haunted. Now, though, he saw a flicker of something else, but there wasn't time to identify it, before it morphed into what was clearly panic, and she averted her gaze to look at the bandage, leaving him to ponder what he had seen.

As the bandages came off layer by layer they revealed two long, slender and slightly curved steel plates clearly designed for splinting purposes. She removed them and laid them down by her side – apparently she wasn't certain they wouldn't still be needed.

“You break bones often since you need those?” He indicated the splints with a glance.

“It happens. Can't always be lucky and have useful branches handy. I take precautions.” Her tone was clipped and guarded, but it was impossible to tell whether it was because of his question or because of what he'd just seen in her eyes. The woman was a mystery still.

“Guess I'm the one who's lucky.” He mumbled while watching her unwind and roll up the inner, blood-soaked layers of bandages. He pointedly didn't meet her eyes, when she looked at his face. He could give her a little privacy in that regard. He absent-mindedly scratched his cheek. Gods, he needed a shave. How many days had it been?

“Yes. Very lucky you found me when you did.” She put the roll of soiled bandages down to the side without looking at it. Her gaze was fixed on the jagged, curving suture on the outside of his upper arm. The prodding she subjected the edges of the wound to was gentler than it had been on his side.

“Not healed quite as much as the other one,” she commented and he nodded in agreement. “It was bad, but this was a clean break, like I said. I managed to set it, so at least you don't need to grow new bone. I'd like to check if the bone seems to be healing as it's supposed to, if that's all right with you. It'll probably hurt. A lot,” she warned him.

“Sure, go ahead.” He nodded, this time remembering to do it slowly, so his head wouldn't hate him too much.

“Just be sure to keep your arm relaxed,” she exhorted. “Your muscles were pretty torn as well, and you don't wanna tighten them just yet. They might not heal properly otherwise.”

He once again nodded his acquiescence and braced himself for it, teeth clenched, toes curled, the like. And she was right. It did hurt. Fuck, did it hurt. Not so much the bone itself, though, but the muscles she'd said had been injured. Her little hums of satisfaction seemed to confirm that his body was regenerating from the inside and out.

“Yeah, bone's healing just fine. Hardly any swelling left around it anymore. The tissues are settling around it. They should be back to normal in another week.” Shit, had it been a week already? Yeah, it had. “The bone itself will probably need a week beyond that. And then a few more weeks of very cautious use.” He had figured that out already. It was times like these when it was good to be a witcher. A normal person's bones would have needed well over two months, probably even more than three, to recover from such an injury – if it ever fully would.

“But it'll be a while before I'll lift anything heavy again,” he stated referring to his torn muscles.

“Maybe. Probably not. Once your bone is completely healed and your blood has been fully restored, the muscle shouldn't take all that long.” She pushed gently at a spot on his triceps he couldn't see in this position. He didn't say anything, but he knew his facial expression clearly told her everything she needed to know. “Sorry.”

“'s fine. You warned me.” He grumbled with gritted teeth. “Just check what you need to, and don't drag it out.”

She did as he requested and finished her ministrations in her admirably efficient fashion. It still left him clammy with sweat, though.

“Gonna wrap it again, I think. Don't want you accidentally tearing everything apart.” She got up and went to rummage around in one of her bags, and Eskel used the opportunity to twist his shoulder and have a look at his arm. So far he'd only seen one end of the sewn up gash that his bone had torn from the inside. Looking at it he couldn't help but wince at the remembered agony. The scar he'd have from this one would be impressive in its own right, but at least his arm would be fine, she had said.

The witcheress returned with clean bandages, water skin and wash cloth “Wanna wash it yourself or shall I torture you with my prodding a bit longer before I wrap it up?” She seemed to have a humour as dry as autumn leaves; he liked it. Probably more than he should, and for a moment he was tempted to accept her offer, but he stilled those thoughts. Bad ideas were best left untried.

“I can handle it. I need to wash. Everywhere.” He really did. He hadn't moved around more than absolutely necessary while she was gone. Looking for a source of water had not been a high priority. With his pained movements, more or less random bouts of nausea, and the disturbing, half-remembered dreams at night, he had really built up a sticky layer of itchiness he longed to be rid of.

“All right. Just use the rest of the water, then. I'll go refill the skins.” He did. Emptying the water skin into the bowl he could feel it was cold, but with the promise of stopping the itching and scratching, cold water was the least of his worries. He handed the now empty skin to the woman and set about his ablutions while she disappeared out of their camp.

He was almost excited at the prospect of having sort of clean and non-itchy skin for the first time since before he'd set out wyvern-hunting. Obviously he'd been given a perfunctory bath before he'd woken up by the cat's fire. But that had hardly taken care of everything. That would be... what had she said? 6 days ago now? No wonder he felt better, even if he was still greatly weakened by the blood loss. At least his wounds were healing as they should, and moving around wasn't half as painful anymore. Standing and walking was entirely possible – at least for short stretches.

To not get his bedroll soaked he stripped and stood off to the side – though not too far from the fire. Mild though the winter might have been so far, it was definitely becoming too cold to wander away from the fire's warmth, and his body was still unable to properly thermoregulate itself.

The little cleansing ritual was made difficult by having to not use his left arm too much. Without the bandages providing pressure on the muscles, he could feel how they threatened to tear at the seams with every movement he put them through. He managed well enough, though, and he was quite relieved, when he was clean enough to finally feel comfortable in his own skin again – at least the parts of his skin that were whole. Not many of those left. More than half a century on the Path left certain traces.

He donned his trousers again, glad for the extra layer of insulation they provided against the cold. All he needed now was a shave and then he'd be good to go. Looking at his razor but also at the slight tremor of his hand that held it, he sighed and sat back down on his bedroll. That would have to wait until he could manage the necessary precision again. He put it away, hoping it wouldn't be too long before he'd be able to manage a shave. It was then that he noticed the scent of the witcheress having returned. He looked behind him. She was standing utterly motionless leaning against one of the walls of the ruined house and watching him intently. When she saw he'd seen her, he received an unmistakeably lewd grin. This one he was sure he didn't just imagine. Maybe the others hadn't been either? How long had she been standing there watching him?

She walked to the fire – was there a bit of a saunter in her gait? – and put a length of soaked bandage on the drying rack. Eskel was confused. One moment she was stand-offish and wouldn't even tell him her name, and the next she looked at him like she wanted to jump him. He had no idea what to make of that, though he wouldn't deny he rather liked having that particular kind of look directed at him for a change. Derisive sneers he was used to, appreciative leers, if that had indeed been what she sent him, not so much. He definitely didn't mind those, now he just wished he could figure out what to make of this odd woman who looked at him like he was a tasty treat.

The fresh bandages were waiting where she'd left them, and the two of them settled back into the positions they'd left only a short while ago. She dabbed the edges of the wound with a clean cloth, and he prepared for the stinging pain he expected to follow. Nothing.

“How'd you get this one?” He was surprised at her question, and he was about to reiterate what he'd already said about wyverns, when it occurred to him that her finger had traced his arm length-wise. That scar was old and had long since faded into a thin white line.

“Heh, got a bit too close to the business end of a kikimore's claws before I could convince it to just lie down and die already. Long time ago now.”

“I can tell,” she said simply. “I think, I managed to patch up your arm so the line will remain unbroken.”

The look he sent her was puzzled, he knew, but it seemed she understood his unspoken question well enough. “Such lines tell me how the edges are supposed to match up. Helps make sure I don't misalign something important,” she explained quietly.

To use scars like that had never even occurred to him, and he smiled at her, glad that she was sitting on his left side, where he still had some facial expression to speak of.

She smiled back at him and added drily: “Besides, I find a morbid sort of irony in keeping old scars whole, when so little else remains so.” She risked only very brief eye contact this time, as they both laughed at the conditions on the Path they both walked, before she returned her attention to his wounds. He took the opportunity of having her gaze focused on bandaging up his arm once more and looked at her face then; really looked.

She might once have been called beautiful, before the extensive scarring. Her dusky, bronzed skin indicated she hailed from the same region as her spice preferences. Dark eyebrows shaded almond-shaped eyes, and Eskel was certain that before her Trial those eyes would have been brown, dark enough to maybe almost be black. He'd seen Zerrikanian women before – he liked to travel East – and though this woman wasn't quite like the ones he'd usually see, there were definitely likenesses. Even without the scars she would still have been an unusual sight in these parts.

Those prominent – but far from the only – scars on her face were indisputably claw marks. The most noticeable scar was of course the one extending from the corner of her mouth all the way back to her ear, bisecting her cheek and drawing the right corner of her mouth into a grimace that made her look more than a little insane. One matching scar above it, beginning with a deep indent on the bridge of her probably once-straight nose and continueing along her cheek bone. There were two more scars below it, one along her jaw and one across her throat respectively. Whatever had done that had meant business. This injury would have been no less serious than the one that had left the deep furrow in her back and leg.

The bandage was snug around his arm again, and she tied it neatly. He knew he should look away; knew he shouldn't let her see the direction of his gaze, but he couldn't help but wonder. And he tarried too long. Of course he did, and she saw it. Apparently cats weren't the only ones to sometimes let their curiosity get the better of them.

“You want to ask.” She had leaned back into her crouch, when she was done bandaging his arm, but she remained perfectly still.

Her words tore his eyes back up to hers, while somewhere in the back of his mind, Eskel made a note of it being the third time since their staring contest that he'd seen her still completely. She didn't look angry. That, at least, was something. He knew what it was like to be stared at, so why couldn't he take his eyes off those deep furrows in her face? He didn't know what to say, so he remained helplessly silent.

“Why don't you ask, when you so clearly want to?” The cat tilted her head questioningly to the side, giving him an even better view of her disfigurement. He forced himself to look away.

“Didn't want to pry,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

She said nothing, and when he looked back at her face she was still looking at him, brows furrowed in puzzlement. “You had no problem asking me about the scar on my ass,” she pointed out, helpfully reminding him of his lapse in manners.

“That's different.” And it was. At least to him.

A nonchalant shrug. “Suit yourself.” And then she was clearing up the paraphernalia of their little medical session and storing them away in her pack. It occurred to him that at this moment she probably understood him about as little as he did her. Maybe that woiuld be the better starting point for an approach.

“Don't you have any scars you just don't want to talk about?” He tried for an opener.

“Sure I do.”

He waited, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming from her. His face still itched. Dammit he really needed a shave. Patience was a virtue, he reminded himself. It was a trying one at times.

Her voice interrupted his annoyed musings:“D'you need my... ehh, nevermind.” He looked at the strange witcher and almost laughed at her expression. She looked pretty much like he imagined he did, when he felt like kicking and berating himself. An odd and very unbecoming grimace that mostly looked like a blend of a nervous grin and a furious scowl. He didn't laugh. Only nearly. He knew that feeling so well.

“What?” Might as well find out what that was all about.

“Just thought...” she trailed off, but then she took a deep breath and started again. “Ahh, fuck it. I've noticed you scratching at your face several times since I got back. And I saw the way you looked at your razor. I was going to ask if you needed my help with a shave, but the answer to that is sorta obvious. I, uhhh, figure the real question is if you **want** my help, which is kind of a different matter.” She didn't even look at him, when she finished, shuffling awkwardly on restless feet. What had put her so badly on edge so suddenly?

“You've learned to shave a man? Why?” It was utterly impossible for him to keep the surprise out of his voice.

She nodded, but her lips had tightened. “That's one of those questions I'm not gonna answer. Suffice it to say, I know how. I'll understand if you don't want my help in that particular area, though.”

The way she spoke made it quite clear, she wouldn't hold it against him if he didn't want her near his throat with a razor. But now it was his turn to cast a scrutinizing look in her direction. She had given him no reason to think she'd turn on him, but she seemed to constantly expect him to think she would. He could still only think of one explanation: Cat. He was becoming more and more certain about his assessment; he realised he'd already begun to think of her as 'the cat'. And yet, he still didn't sense any threat from her – not directly anyway. She was dangerous, no doubt about it, but so was he, any witcher would be. But a threat? No, not as of now, anyway. A mystery, rather.

“You've already pointed out that saving my life only to kill me a few days later would be silly.” Unless of course, she was a cat playing with her prey. He tried not to think too much about that notion.

“I don't think silly was the word I used,” she huffed, hiding any other reaction behind mock indignation. Shit. Her guard was coming up faster than a celibate dick in a whorehouse. She was distancing herself. What little emotion she'd shown bled away from her eyes. He wouldn't let her. Not this time.

So why the hell not, he decided. What did he have to lose? “I would like your help.”

She looked at him sharply at that with a narrowed gaze that he was sure could cut steel if she'd set her mind to it. She studied him long enough that he wanted to squirm under her scrutiny until she simply said: “You're a strange one, wolf.”

He smirked openly at her, knowing his scarring would make it look more like a sneer. “Coming from you, I'm not even sure what that means.” He'd almost called her 'cat', right then, but caught himself in time. He wanted to observe her a little longer, before he attempted to confront her about anything. And he definitely wasn't going to be doing any confronting, while she had a razor near his throat anyway. She stared at him for a bit, clearly thinking it over, but her eyes didn't look entirely 'there', so he just waited for her to gather herself.

Eventually she did and came back to where he sat. Water, bowl and wash cloth in hand she knelt at one end of his bedroll and arranged a folded blanket over her lap to adjust the angle. It was easy to tell how she intended to do this, and after finding and handing her his tools he laid down with his head in her lap. Not an opportunity he often got, and after their exchange he felt an odd need to just clear the air and set a few things straight between them.

“Questions you don't answer,” he started, and he felt her stiffen immediately, the muscles in her thighs hardening beneath his head. “I guess, we all have some. I don't answer questions about this.” He made a sloppy gesture with his hand to indicate his mangled face. “And I suppose I thought it'd be much the same for you.”

She relaxed again and nodded curtly. “I figured as much. I won't ask.” It was hard to read her expression like this, upside down as his view of her was.

As everything appeared to be ready to her satisfaction she suddenly paused and sought his eyes again. “Was that a round-about way of asking me about what clawed my face to shreds?”

When he grinned slightly at her, she grinned back, causing his own grin to widen. “Maybe. Will you tell me?”

“You sure you wanna hear a story about bloodied throats when in this position?” Eskel celebrated a small victory in his mind. He had her back in her strangely joking mood. Much better.

“I'm sure, I can stomach it. Witcher. Remember?”

And so, while she shaved him with a practised, calm hand he would never have expected from anyone but a professional barber, she told him the story – albeit with frequent pauses, when she needed to focus on what she was doing. Not a perfect pro, after all, but someone who knew what she was doing, as he had decided to trust her to be, when he accepted her offer. And as she spoke, he began to realise the enormity of what she was trusting him with in return.


	11. Interlude 5

“So. Bad news? What kind?”

Eskel hesitated. How could he possibly explain his actions?

“Come on, out with it! What kind?” Lambert prodded.

He would have to come up with an answer. Something. Anything. Stall for time. “What do you think?”

“What **I** think? I think your prude self just don't want to admit that she brought out your naughty side.” The diagnosis, which probably wasn't entirely inaccurate, was followed by a smug snigger. “Tell me, was this before or after the succubus?”

Eskel glowered. “Very funny.” A brief contemplation of the wisdom of sharing later: “Before.”

“So she did bring you out of that shell of yours. I knew it! How do you still manage to be so up-tight, then?”

Despite actually being able to sit still, Lambert's scrutiny didn't unnerve him the way the Cat's had. It only served to annoy him. “It has nothing to do with that.”

“Liar.”

“Fuck off, Lambert.” He had to give it to him, though: his observations were impressive.

“Not a chance. Not now.”

Eskel groaned, sorely regretting ever letting Lambert hear anything about this at all. “She did... I hadn't... fuck it. She made me a realise a couple of things. But that's nothing to do with her being bad news.”

“Oh really.”

“Really. She wasn't bad news for me. Even if she did seem to think she might be.”


	12. Chapter 6

“A few wraiths in a graveyard had kept me entertained since sundown and I was ready to have the rest of the night off – or early morning, really. Middle of the night, and there I was, drunk off my arse and in the mood for a good fuck. Fighting does that. You know it well enough, I'd say.”

“Small village, one tavern, small selection to choose from that time of night, but nonetheless there was a lad, whom I figured would be passable company for the remainder of the night. He clearly agreed, 'cause he was just about walking to my room in greater haste than I was. I think he might actually have been waiting up for me to return from the contract. In hindsight, I maybe should've suspected something might be up, but like I said: drunk off my arse. I wasn't thinking much at all. I'd done the work I came for and only had some relaxation in mind. Why question good fortune when it presented me with an friendly lad, after all?”

“Easily the strongest lad in town, he was probably quite the heartthrob for several of the local girls. Pity, really. It seemed he had also caught the eye of someone else. Or I should say some **thing** else. And to my chagrin I noticed it far too late. He seemed to have known, though. Stupid boy. If only he'd told me. I'm a witcher, for fuck's sake. I make a living sorting out such problems. Or try to anyway. Instead of telling me, so I could help him out, he just decided to keep me company, while I was too drunk to be worth much in a fight anyway. Fucking mess, it ended up as.”

“Anyway. We were going at it. Too busy with everything to bother with any kind of watchfulness. He had spent rather a lot of energy in proving his prowess – I have to give it to him, though, attempting to impress a witcher with your stamina requires a hearty amount of optimism, the silly cad. But I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. His efforts deserved no criticism. Not in the least. At this point, however, I was running the show and was taking care of him, much like I took care of you the other night.”

The small hint of a smile that had been plainly audible in the witcheress' voice now and then faded and disappeared completely as she continued. Instead the hard tones of bitterness and regret coloured her words.

“It wasn't my finest hour, to be sure; not every hour can be, obviously, but still... there are limits to how much incompetence one should be allowed at any given moment. And this was definitely more than my allotted quota, because I wasn't half as alert as I should have been. I wasn't really alert at all, to be honest. And so I never noticed what came sneaking up on us.”

“Someone else had been wanting the lad for herself, and I only realised what was happening, when I felt her clawed hands on my head. The alp was right behind me, and from her grip it was easy to tell that she intended to simply break my neck with a quick twist. Probably didn't want to risk drinking my blood, the clever cunt. She probably meant to take my place on top of the poor lad if she could get away with it. At least that's what it sounded like at first.”

“Drunk and unprepared though I was, my instincts weren't completely out of commission. Saved my life. I immediately rolled forward and out of her grasp. Unfortunately her grasp was already too tight for that to work quite well enough. I ended up on the floor with my throat slashed open and my cheek likewise. Believe me when I tell you, I know exactly what your little dance with blood loss here feels like, 'cause I was rapidly bleeding out on the floor of that bloody, ploughing inn.”

“It was more luck than anything else that the alp really only wanted the lad. Maybe she thought I was dying quickly enough not to be a bother anymore. Because she at least left me free to take my own measures. Sheer fucking luck, nothing else.”

Eskel watched as her mouth tightened into a thin line as she swallowed a lump.

“I couldn't save him, wolf. Especially not while in the process of dying myself, so while I fumbled desperately for a potion and waited for it to work, the alp drained the lad of his blood. I didn't recover quickly enough. When I was finally back on my feet, I attacked her, of course. But my injuries were painful, and I was hardly in much of a condition for fighting – naked and bleeding heavily out of a handful of brand new holes in my face. Bet you can just imagine what a vision of beauty I must've been, hm?”

She abruptly removed the razor from his cheek as he tried to restrain a chuckle. “Eh, sorry, shouldn't make you laugh. Don't want to cut you. But I can tell you know from painful experience just how much facial wounds like these fucking bleed. Stuck pig and all that. A fucking bother's what they are.” She stopped talking and focused intently on his damaged skin. Her gentle touch was a stark contrast to her grim tale, and Eskel wasn't quite sure what he appreciated more – the utmost care with which she made sure she got everything about the shave just right or the obviously painful and personal story she had agreed to regale him with all the while. Whatever decision she had made about him earlier certainly seemed to have come out to his benefit. Again.

She finished the areas around his scars and moved on to places that required less concentration. “Either way. Others heard the commotion, I suppose, and when they arrived at the impressively bloody scene, there were probably none who believed that anything still moving in that room could be benevolent. The damned alp fled out the window. And since my throat was cut and my mouth barely holding together, not to mention I was gurgling on my own blood, I was hard-pressed to explain anything at all. Also kinda focused on taking the thing down. I'm actually not sure whether I was running on shock or rage or equal amounts of both. I was hardly even thinking.”

“Luckily I had been too paranoid to ever really unpack, so I could easily get dressed, albeit kind of sloppily, grab my shit, and disappear hot on the heels of the ploughing bitch. Of course I didn't disappear terribly far away, because, well, blood loss. You know how it is. I try to never ever run out of Swallow potions, though I'll admit I'd have given an eye for a White Raffard's at that moment. It was difficult to get the damned brew to even stay in my mouth, but it worked and the Swallow just barely kept up with the blood loss, keeping me semi-stable for long enough to get a little further into the woods.”

The witcheress paused pensively as if debating with herself whether she should continue her tale. Eskel refrained from commenting and waited for any further grizzly developments. She'd technically already explained her scars, but not the end of the alp. And given that she wasn't any different from the witchers he knew, or didn't seem to be anyway, that alp had been doomed the moment it entered her room at the inn. Finally she drew a deep breath and continued her tale.

“Potion or not, I was more than half-dead and still incredibly drunk, when I lost the trail in my semi-delirious state. Instead I stumbled across a little house – shed more like – and in it lived a little old lady. She was a witch, I think. A healer definitely. And she stitched up my throat and stopped the worst of the bleeding. She offered me a merciless glance in a mirror, too. I can tell you this: the inside of your mouth is not supposed to be seen from the outside – through your cheek. The damned alp had simply opened my face up completely, not sure how I remained standing – much less running – for as long as I did. Small miracle I even escaped with my life. And that's still more than can be said for the poor lad.” There was that self-recrimination again.

“It took far, far too long before I could drink anything even slightly boozy again without wanting to murder someone. By the time the adrenaline subsided, I wasn't even able to eat hot food and couldn't for two or three weeks. Not that I waited that long to go after that accursed bitch.”

“I had to stay with the healer for a few days, but the alp was still on the loose, so I didn't much like that fact. I've gotten better, but patience definitely wasn't my greatest virtue back then. I wanted to get back on its trail. My face was still barely holding together, when I set out again, but I didn't care. Wasn't intending to kill the fucking thing with a headbutt anyway; I've blades for that shit. Interrupting me in the middle of a nice, enjoyable fuck – that makes it personal, and killing a perfectly nice lad makes it entirely justified. I tracked her down. Took three days to find her and then I messed up my wound healing even further by drinking a Black Blood before confronting her again. It was worth it, though. Took another three days before I was good and ready to hand in the proof of having killed her.”

Eskel had never really been the vengeful sort, and though he did kind of understand the reasons for the small, cruel smile ghosting across the cat's face, it did also unsettle him a fair bit. Three days. Shit. So far she'd given him no reason to suspect foul play, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was giving him a warning. Not that he had any plans to piss off or otherwise antagonise the person to whom he currently owed his scarred hide. He might not be the vengeful type, but it seemed she was, nor did she mind admitting to it either. What was she really telling him by recounting these past events? Was she meaning to tell him anything at all other than the story he'd so clumsily requested? Was he just being paranoid? When she continued, it did not serve to alleviate his worries. Not one bit.

“I returned to the little town with one severed alp head. Of course in the meantime the townsfolk had ended up deciding it was me that had brought it all down on them; that I was probably in league with the alp, and so I was next on the list of 'creatures' there'd be a bounty paid for. First I lay to rest a couple of wraiths in their graveyard and they're oh so grateful. Then an alp kills a lad, and suddenly I'm to blame for everything bad that ever happened. I brought them her head – they came at me with torches and pitchforks. I didn't react terribly well to that.”


	13. Interlude 6

****

“So? She was bad news for a vampire. That's what we do. We're witchers! Or did you forget that while you were busy fucking her?”

“Three days, shitwit. Three days!”

“You fucked her for three days? That's impressive, even for a witcher, you sly whoreson.”

Eskel once again lamented that glaring never seemed to work on Lambert, but this time he also couldn't help smirking a bit. Just a bit. There were other ways.

“Whatever you wanna envision, Lambert, just go ahead.”

The response came promptly as his friend's frown deepened into an exaggerated grimace. “Ugh, no thanks. Seeing your face is bad enough. Don't wanna imagine the rest.”

“Funny. I could've sworn a moment ago you were the one who insisted on talking about who I plough and how.”

Lambert's blink and a moment of hesitation told Eskel he'd scored that one, but the prickly bastard was nothing if not quick to recover. “And you're the one talking about a vampire instead. Is there something else you wish to confess?”

Yeah, that one he'd expected. He laughed and shook his head slowly. “No. Vampires are your thing apparently – not mine.”

Lambert just laughed; loud enough even for a grumbling complaint to be heard from Geralt's bunk off to the side, making them both laugh even harder. Eskel did try to stifle his laughter. The poor sod wasn't in great condition, and he didn't want to make things worse for him. Lambert showed no such consideration.

“Anyway, it was simply her story that unsettled me.”

“But why? She killed a vampire, because it killed a lad. That **is** what we do. I don't see the problem.”

“You don't think taking three days to kill the thing is, uhhh, excessive?”

“Maybe a little, but what's the harm? The vampire was going to die anyway. Why be concerned with the how of it? It tore up her face. I'd say the critter deserved everything it got.”

Eskel should've known the git wouldn't understand. “It's not the fucking vampire my concern was for. It was her, all right? Besides, it wasn't just the vampire...”

“Great. Who else did she kill? Your favourite succubus?”

“Huh, if only...”

That, at least, got Lambert's attention. Shaking his head he pondered whether it was the least bit wise to tell him the rest, but he'd plunged into it head first, so he might as well continue. Besides, judging from Geralt's breathing, he was probably listening in with half an ear now and then, too. Fuck it, two decades had passed, he might as well just go on.


	14. Chapter 7

A dead boy, grievous injuries and an alp, whose death he did not wish for any more details on; not bad for a week's work all in all. The retaliation, though... three days. The Cats were extremely good at dealing out their violence in very exact measures. Unfortunately for their victims the measures more often than not had to do with precision rather than amount. This one seemed no different. He wondered why she had decided to tell him how long she took to kill the alp. She knew he was from the Wolf school, and they were generally known for being the right honourable sorts. Mostly, anyway. It was to be expected that he would disapprove of her actions, so why? She didn't have to tell him. He would have had no way of checking the truthfulness of any story she decided to tell anyway.

Eskel got the distinct impression that she wasn't quite done with the tale yet, when she carefully dabbed his skin with the cloth's cooling moisture. The contrast between her macabre story and the gentle, albeit calloused fingers on his cheek was striking. It was only in savouring the touch that he realised he had closed his eyes during her ministrations. He opened them instantly and found himself looking straight into hers. The expression he saw there was easy to read despite the upside-down view. And she must have known she didn't school her features fast enough to hide it.

It was the same darkly haunted look as earlier. Only stronger. That terrible sense of foreboding welled up in him again. Yeah, she definitely had more story to tell. And it was clearly a part of it she didn't much like.

“There. You're all set,” she said, abruptly changing the mood with satisfaction in her voice and a pleased smirk playing around the unscathed corner of her mouth.

He sat up and rubbed a hand over his now smooth chin. She'd taken great care with the areas around his scars, and there were no signs of hairs that would cause him trouble. While it had felt like she was a bit rusty at first – clearly it had been some time since she last did this – she had quickly gotten into it. A neat, close shave that he hadn't handled on his own; he could hardly even remember the last time he'd had that. And now, instead of just enjoying it, he was faced with a decision regarding the oddly timed confession of the nameless witcheress. Curiosity won out.

“Thanks.” He wanted to keep her talking. “And there I thought I'd had a stroke of bad luck. You're full of surprises.”

“Hmmf,” she answered with a bitter-sounding grunt.

“You don't take compliments very well.”

“No,” she paused briefly, “neither do you. You just ignore them.”

He didn't. Did he? He considered the couple of times she'd said or done something to compliment him. He had not ignored those. Except, he hadn't exactly acknowledged them either. Not to her anyway. He had simply decided they weren't... genuine? Relevant? Shit, he wasn't even sure himself.

“I, uhhh, appreciate them. I'm just not used to them. Never really know what to say.” That was the plain truth of it, and her soundless, bitter laugh told him she knew exactly what he was talking about. He pressed on: “Hey, if compliments don't work, how about gratitude? I appreciate what you're doing for me; what you've already done. Many just wouldn't have bothered.”

“Save your praise for someone who deserves it, wolf.” There were nothing more to do where she sat, and he couldn't think of anything to say.

Her need for distance was plainly obvious, but he still wanted to hear the rest of her story, so he waited until she'd gotten up and left his side. “So, what happened?”

“Happened?”

“Your story,” he prompted, “you sounded like there was more to tell.”

“Oh.” Her eyes clouded over and her mouth settled into an angry scowl as she realised what he was asking. “Yeah, I suppose you'll want to know.”

“Not if you don't wanna talk about it,” he offered. She could back out and he wouldn't pursue it.

She got up and deposited the cloth on a stick near the fire. Nowhere near as neat as the orderliness he'd seen from her previously. She was tense; like an animal in that briefest of moments, when its instincts haven't yet decided between fighting or fleeing. Eventually she crouched down at the opposite side of the camp-fire. Her gaze might have been directed at the flames, but her focus was far away. Eskel waited for her to make a decision and pick up where she left off. Pressuring her felt like it would be a bad idea, and she hadn't outright refused - yet. Besides, he did have a feeling he'd already guessed what was coming – he just wanted to be sure. And there was a faint shimmer of hope that he was wrong. He doubted that, though. He wanted to be wrong, but he didn't expect this particular story to end prettily. Mind, witchers' tales seldom did, but with what she'd already told him, her hesitation to say more was not exactly comforting.

“It's only fair, I guess,” she muttered reluctantly.

“What's fair?”

“That you know what you'll be holed up with during that blizzard I'm expecting.” He did not like how she said 'what' rather than 'who'. Didn't like it at all.

“You saved my life,” he pointed out, keeping his tone carefully calm.

A resigned sigh told him she'd let go of the last of her resistance, and she nodded slowly. “Like I said, they came at me with torches and pitchforks. I wasn't fully healed up yet. I had left the old witch's dwelling much sooner than I probably ought. Fighting the alp hadn't exactly improved my condition either.”

Eskel snorted at that, he just couldn't help it. “It never does.”

She shook her head in agreement. “I was exhausted, and I probably wouldn't even have been able to outrun a child. And they came at me. Out for blood – despite me having brought the head of the alp. It didn't matter. They'd already decided who was to blame.”

He nodded. The scenario wasn't unfamiliar to him. In fact, as far as he knew, most witchers ran into that situation once in a while; people deciding that they were as much of a danger as the monsters they were paid to kill. It was the kind of situation they all knew of and feared they'd face someday if they hadn't already. Few acquitted themselves admirably in impossible situations. Very few. They might be witchers and thus able to do things normal men couldn't, but they weren't miracle-workers.

“I defended myself – tried to just fend them off without causing damage at first. I really tried.” There was a desperate tone to her voice as she recounted the events. “I didn't want to hurt them. I never meant to hurt them.”

He made no move to respond. Just waited for her to continue.

“There were enough of them to overwhelm me. They had me surrounded. Cornered. And I was already wounded. I panicked. And then-” her voice lowered to a shaky whisper. “All that anger I thought I'd let out on the alp just came back to me. The rage. I just- I saw red.”

He acknowledged her tale with a nod. He knew the anger at being received with distrust and even hatred despite having saved lives, but at the same time this sounded like it was more than that. Much more and much worse. Now he just had to know. Had to be sure.

“I killed them.”

He **had** figured as much. “They attacked you. You defended yourself.”

“No, I mean. I killed them all.”

“They didn't stop attacking once you started fighting back for real?” People really were stupid sometimes. Witchers were formidable opponents. No less so when cornered.

She looked at the ground. “Yes. Yes they did. I killed them anyway. They fled. I gave chase. They hid. I found them. They pleaded for mercy. I didn't listen. I killed every single one of them. Every. Single. One.”

“Still, they attacked you.”

“No. You don't understand,” she surprised him by actually looking into his eyes just then. He was taken aback by the pain he saw there. And desperate grief. And... disgust? “I killed all of them. Not just the ones that attacked me,” she admitted in a hoarse, almost pleading whisper. “All of them. The entire village. It's a ghost town now.”

Shit. That **was** worse than he'd expected. He didn't know what to say and his mind was racing to come up with something, anything. She held his gaze, seemingly searching for something. Eventually she looked away again. He couldn't tell whether she'd found what she was looking for, and she simply fell silent, not revealing anything either way. Eskel mulled over her story. Terrible thought it might be, it was clearly in the past, and she did not appear likely to repeat it. Not with the way she acted at the moment. And that haunted look in her eyes? Well, seemed he got himself an explanation for it. Now that he thought about it, Geralt had looked kind of similar a couple of years back, when he'd earned himself an uncomfortable moniker from Blaviken.

The witcheress exhaled slowly through her nose. “I'm gonna make sure you get through the blizzard alive,” she mumbled, her tone mostly neutral but with a tinge of bitterness, “and then I'll be on my way.”

“You sure about that blizzard?” He asked lamely, not knowing how to move on from this.

“Don't worry, wolf. If I'm wrong, then I'll be on my way even sooner. You won't suffer my company longer than necessary.”

“That's not what I meant. I don't want-” he stopped himself. The truth was he didn't actually know what he wanted. Especially not now. That was quite a revelation she'd dropped on him. He made a quick and probably bad decision. Fuck it, he could work with this – at least she was being honest with him, it seemed. “I don't necessarily want you to leave as soon as you can. You saved my life.”

“I saved theirs too. Didn't make a difference in the end,” she sneered at the fire.

“But unlike them, I'm not gonna turn on you.” Unless she turned on him first, of course, but that possibility was probably best left unmentioned right now. They both knew it anyway.

Her eyes found his again, boring into his soul it felt like. “Don't make promises you can't keep, wolf.”

“I don't.” Not anymore anyway, he didn't.

She just grunted.

“Look,” he tried, “had we met under different circumstances, I might've had an issue with it. Had your attitude been different, I might've had an issue. But you obviously aren't too happy about it yourself.”

Her by now familiar derisive snort confirmed his statement. “That's putting it mildly, wolf.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Most people's mistakes don't involve wiping out entire villages.”

“Huh, can't argue with that,” he admitted.

“No. so why do you bother trying?” Her tone was increasingly hostile.

“Because I want you to believe me, when I say you don't have to leave as soon as possible for my sake.” Her face remained stony despite his words. “If you want to go, if you have somewhere else you'd rather be or even need to be, do as you like. Just don't do it because you think I want nothing to do with you.”

“You really are a strange one, wolf,” she reiterated once again in that monotonous voice.

Eskel sighed. “If we're just going to repeat our words at each other... You saved my life. I'll admit that makes me biased in your favour.” He sent her a crooked grin. “But right now I find I really don't give a rat's ass about it. I'm alive, and I appreciate you keeping me that way.”

“You really mean to say you don't care about that many dead villagers?” Her face was still stony, but her tone was incredulous now. That at least was a sign of some kind of life according to Eskel's best estimates.

“Not gonna tell you, you did right, 'cause we both know you didn't. It just doesn't matter right now.”

“Right now...”

“Like I said, had the circumstances been different, we might be having a different conversation. But here's where we are, and it's because of you I'm not leaking guts onto the ground. Whatever shitty things you've done in your past, I appreciate what you've done for me in the present, allright?”

She didn't respond, just got back to work on her preparations for the blizzard.


	15. Interlude 7

“So, she essentially admitted to your face that she was a psycho murderer,” Lambert helpfully summarized.

“Mm hm.” There wasn't much to say, really.

“And she seemed to more or less consider herself a monster.”

“Mm hm. Sounded like it,” and Eskel had hated it every time she had alluded to herself as such. Though probably not half as much as she'd seemed to hate herself.

“Witchers kill monsters.”

“Hrmmmph.”

“And you didn't kill her?”

“No.”

“Aren't you supposed to be a witcher?”

“Never said I was a good one.” He'd had no idea what to do about her. So he'd done nothing. And ever since, he'd doubted the wisdom of his inaction. That seemed to be his curse; inaction. He knew how to be a witcher, but confront him with anything outside the bounds of their trade and he was left indecisive.

The silence stretched between them and Eskel quickly fell back into his reminiscences. He almost missed it, when Lambert muttered so quietly it was obvious he wasn't even meant to hear it.

“You are, though...”


	16. Chapter 8

The remainder of the evening they'd passed in tense silence, preparing supply rations for the coming days. That is; she had been tense, he had spent the time desperately wondering what to do about the whole thing, if anything. She was a murderer, and she hadn't even so much as tried to make excuses for herself. And him? He suddenly had a bit more context for the comment about a deathwish, she'd made the other day. She didn't seem to have one at the moment. She was certainly competent enough to off herself if that's what she really wanted. And if doing it herself was distasteful to her, she would not have been the first witcher to have deliberately sought out an enemy beyond her ability to handle. It wasn't exactly unheard of. It was a lot to mull over, and he couldn't decide what to think of it all.

The woman hadn't met his eyes again, keeping her gaze consistently averted – even downcast – whenever he looked her way. Sometimes he could feel her eyes on him, though. Sometimes when he turned his head towards her, he caught the jerky movement as she looked away. It took him several attempts – she was eerily good at avoiding his gaze – but at some point after nightfall, he managed to catch a glimpse of her face, while she was looking at him. The dejected sadness in her expression was not surprising to him – not after the way she had sounded when she told him that story. But there was something else there too that he couldn't readily identify.

As they went to sleep that night, Eskel found himself still pondering the day's revelation. He just couldn't let it go. Now he understood why she was being so antsy around him. Her story had only been more reason for him to think she was from the School of the Cat – known for their less than sane approach to existence – and he suspected she knew that he would draw that conclusion. She was nothing if not clever, he'd had several demonstrations that she knew her way around the world. She would be expecting him to kill her at any moment. Bitterly, he had to admit that the only way to alleviate her skittishness around him would be to grab the bull by its horns and get the unspoken Cat-affiliation out in the open. And he had no idea how to broach the subject. What should he say? Hey, I know you're from the School of the Cat, but don't worry I'm not gonna hold it against you? As if that would achieve anything.

Once again his sleep was fitful, and he awoke several times during the night. Each and every time he found the cat awake and sitting by the fire, staring out into the darkness, crushing loneliness etched plain as day onto the hard lines of her face. He was hard-pressed to leave her alone, but she'd made it clear she didn't want to talk any more.

The following morning he awoke to find her gone, her bedroll still present but clearly untouched that night. He looked around and took stock of the camp. Several things had been moved – some were gone. It took him less effort than expected to be up and ready for trouble, even if it did make him slightly dizzy, but he soon realised it was unnecessary. All **his** things were exactly where he'd last seen them, and enough of the cat's belongings were present to make it plain that she hadn't simply left him here. The audible breaths of his horse just outside the crumbling walls gave him the last confirmation he needed that they hadn't been visited by thieves either.

Shaking his head at himself he relaxed again and instead stoked the camp-fire. While crouched next to it, he heard the soft footfalls of his strange companion approaching. The fact that she'd thought to let her footfalls be audible in the first place told him how much she wanted him to be at ease. And yet she'd been no less tense around him.

“Oh good, you're up. We're breaking camp.” Well that tone was new. She sounded outright cheerful.

“Where to?” He hoped it wouldn't take too much of a hike.

“Don't worry. It isn't far from here. The outer chambers of some old ruins.”

He didn't like the sound of that, which must have shown on his face, because the cat continued: “Seriously. Don't worry. The upper levels are safe enough. I cleared them myself a few days ago. Uhhh, I guess by now it's weeks, really. I was recuperating from that venture when your horse dumped you in my lap.”

“The upper levels?”

“Yeah, well, I haven't yet had the time to explore everything, but if we get snowed in that just means we'll have something to do, right? Besides, I've yet to pilfer any interesting shit from the rooms I did clear.” She sounded chipper. Much too chipper. It was forced. He didn't like it. Not one bit. He wanted the tentative companionship of their first few days back, however odd it had been. Not this, whatever this was.

“So you're certain about the blizzard now, then?”

“Yep. The air smells like it'll get real cold by nightfall. Wind and snow'll come later.” There it was. They'd be holed up together for who knew how long, and after yesterday's disclosure he couldn't really blame her for being, whatever it was she was trying to cover with fake cheerfulness. She was probably more worried than even he was – and that was saying something. There was nothing he could say to alleviate it, only time and patience would show her he meant her no harm. He couldn't really blame her for expecting him to think it would be a just act to rid the world of her, but there was no way he'd take it upon himself to do that. No way. He couldn't do that, not after she saved his life. And it wasn't his place to dispense that kind of justice anyway. Even if she did seem to think she belonged to the category of monsters their kind was created to kill.

“All right.” He immediately set about packing his own gear. At least his clothes were fully functional again. That was a boon now that cold weather was rolling in for the first time that winter.

“While I move a few more things off, could you wrap our meat rations in those?” The cat pointed at a satchel next to the familiar little pack of cooking utensils.

“Sure.” Eskel figured he could work with whatever it was.

Distraction got the better of him, though, so he didn't start until he'd thoroughly enjoyed the view of her ass as she crouched down to pick up his saddle and saddle bags.

She noticed him looking and raised an eyebrow. “You always look at women like that, wolf?” The immediate increase in tension was easy to hear, though he wasn't sure why she'd be nervous about that; not after what she'd done for him the other night. Maybe this was a good chance to let her know his behaviour wouldn't change after her revelation.

“Only the attractive ones,” he teased with a wink and reluctantly forced his attention to the satchel she'd indicated. In it he found several sheets of soft, waxed parchment – the ones she'd brought the meat back to their camp in – now cleaned and ready for use once again. “Huh, you really are prepared for anything,” he commented lightly without looking her way.

“I have to be.” Her flat tone, previous cheer all but gone, made him curious and he looked back up at her. It was a thoughtful albeit guarded look she kept raised at him. There was a degree of defiance in it, too. “I stay away from people, unless it absolutely can't be helped. I'm sure a clever wolf like yourself can figure out why. I have to be ready to deal with things others would seek out help for – to make things others would simply buy.”

She didn't need to tell him why, so he nodded in understanding. “Makes sense.” Nothing else needed to be said, as far as he was concerned. Besides, it confirmed for him, what he'd already concluded. She was hell-bent on not repeating a mistake that still haunted her. That was something, at least, and it put him more at ease than it probably should. But there it was. Apparently there were things that could make even a reasonable man unreasonable.

That response apparently satisfied her as well, and her wariness seemed to subside somewhat before she walked off with her load, leaving him to ponder all the things she had let him know and see about her. And all the things she hadn't. It was impossible to make up his mind. The story she'd told him about the alp and the villagers had been a fair bit more gruesome than he'd expected, but it wasn't too far off from what he should've expected from a cat. She wasn't entirely stable, that much was certain, but she was being forthright about it – even if not about her origins – and about preventing it from happening again. She seemed to be on top of things at the moment, but he would make sure to keep note of her state.

The frequency with which she showed up back at their camp to move more things off confirmed the truth of her words for him. They weren't going a long way. Last to go were Mantis and of course himself. The cat – he couldn't even point to exactly when he'd begun consistently thinking of her as such – led Mantis and gestured for him to join up. He could move around mostly unhindered by now, and by the time he realised they hadn't actually been close to each other while standing up before, he also realised how absolutely tiny the woman was. All right, **he** was fairly tall, but she wouldn't even be able to look over his shoulder if she were standing on her toes. Her wiry strength, broad shoulders and hard muscles had made her seem bigger, he supposed. That and the fact that he'd mostly been sitting or even laying down looking up at her. He smiled at his own inattention. If he could just keep that kind of oversights to little things like this, then he'd be fine for now.

“What? What is it?” The sound of the witcheress' voice shook him out of his musings.

“Hm?” He couldn't even formulate a decent response.

“You're staring...”

Shit. Why did he completely forget his otherwise excellent manners around this woman? Oh well, he might as well settle for the truth: “Told you already. I like the view.”

She tilted her head to the side and regarded him intently for easily long enough to make lesser men than him squirm. He patiently awaited her verdict. Eventually her scrutiny turned into an expression of resigned puzzlement. “You're not even lying.” A sigh; a shake of her head punctuated her sentence. “I don't understand you, wolf.”

She started walking; uphill, unfortunately, at which his not yet fully healed body protested, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. Worse was the biting cold of the wind that he hadn't felt while sheltered between the walls of the ruined house. The moment he felt it, he was much more inclined to agree with her predictions of a blizzard, things were definitely getting frosty. The matter at hand was far better to focus on, though, before that got as frosty as the weather.

“What's there to understand?”

“After what I told you, you still like the view.” Oh. That. Yeah, he wasn't entirely sure he understood that himself. Nor was he sure he wanted to. Some things probably weren't meant to be pondered too deeply.

“They don't really have anything to do with each other,” he tried to brush it off.

She chewed on that a little while before answering him. “For some that may well be the truth. Maybe it even is for you sometimes. But right now you're lying.”

“How the fuck can you tell?” Wait... was she right? He thought about it. Yes. Yes, she was. He didn't just enjoy the view, he also enjoyed the company – the company of a murderer who had willingly confessed her crime. And he did like her more because of that. She was... interesting for lack of a better word. The secrets she told him and the ones she still kept had him wanting to spend more time with her, get to know her: a Cat, a murderer, probably insane. What the hell was wrong with him? And how **could** she tell?

She looked at him out the corner of her eye. “Your scent.”

He sighed. “Heh. Might've known.” And that **was** the truth.

“And you still...” she trailed off.

“...like the view,” he finished for her. “Yeah. I do. I guess I like it enough for the rest to not really matter. Or maybe the rest doesn't seem as horrid to me as it does to you.” He didn't get into the details, no, the truth was he didn't want to admit to the specifics. He wasn't sure what they said about him; he wasn't sure he wanted to **know** what it said about him.

The woman by his side fell silent as they trudged on, slowly making their way up the incline. It was painfully obvious to him that their pace was a good bit slower than it would have been, had she been on her own. He definitely wasn't back in the game just yet, and she had noticed it and set suitable pace. Now that he thought about it, she noticed everything it seemed. The woman's hyper-awareness was unsettling. A quick, discreet inhalation confirmed that a faint smell of fear was coming from her – in addition to the smell of stress she'd emanated since before he'd been awake enough to notice. That would explain it, he figured. Better start with the topic at hand.

“It bothers you.” He didn't want her to be uncomfortable around him just because of that. He resolved to do what he could to not agitate her further.

“No. Yes. Witchers aren't supposed to be monsters like me. And we definitely aren't supposed to like monsters. So you shouldn't.”

He shook his head. “Monsters don't regret their actions and try to change. You're not a monster.”

“You don't know me, wolf. You don't know what I am.” That weird, desperate tone was there again.

“I don't need to know. Or, well, I know enough. I've seen the look in your eyes.” He refrained from putting a name to the pain he'd seen in them. There was no reason to push her that much. “Don't worry. You want me to stop? I'll stop.” Or he'd try anyway. If only to make her less uncomfortable.

“No. Yes. No. Nevermind.” She punctuated with a frustrated growl. “It's complicated. I'm not really used to- uhhh this. Any of it.”

“Yeah, I get it.” He really did. “Look, I'm not gonna pretend I don't like you, but if you want to maintain a greater distance, I'll respect that. It's the fucking least I could do.”

She nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing further on the topic. Her scent didn't change, however.

Only then did he realise he hadn't just reiterated what he'd said before about liking the view. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Trying to put her at ease and ending up potentially making her feel even more vulnerable – or at least conflicted. He could have kicked himself, and since she seemed content to be quiet, Eskel resolved it probably was better if he didn't try for more conversation at the moment. His head felt all right most of the time, but then something like this happened and he was reminded that his mind was still foggy in some respects. He really ought to be more careful with their conversations – or attempts thereat.

As they rounded a small out-cropping his companion pointed ahead of them wordlessly indicating their destination. A narrow passage opened into a small dell, nestled between tall mountain sides. The ground was covered in grass, even a few small trees grew here and there, though they didn't seem to thrive here – clearly it had been quite a while since there'd been traffic of any significance here. All he could make out was the Cat's nigh invisible footprints, where she'd walked back and forth this morning.

At the far end of the dell was an opening, fairly large. Easily enough to walk two horses through at a time – it had clearly once held a set of doors, but they were long gone.

“Nice. Sheltered from the wind.” He approved very much of her choice of location.

“Yeah, hopefully the grass here will be enough for your horse.”

“Should be. At least if we don't get too bad snow drifts too soon.”

“Here's hoping, then.”

“But I do have a supply of oats for him.”

“I noticed. I suggest we save 'em, and let him on grass for as long as possible.”

He chanced a small jibe. “Gone through all of my things or just some of them?”

She looked at him sideways. “If I have, why would I tell you the truth? If I haven't, would you believe the truth?”

He pondered that until he noticed that she was only barely concealing the smile. The relief he felt was palpable – so he **had** been able to put her slightly at ease earlier.

“I identified the oats by their smell, wolf. Hard to miss. I've been moving your things around a couple of times now. The only things of yours I've 'gone through', as you put it, are the things you had on you, when you landed in my camp; weapons, clothes, armour, 'cause I had to get you out of it all.”

Eskel tried to discern whether there were any lies hidden in that, but there was nothing about her scent that revealed it, if that were the case. He decided to believe her.

“Speaking of that night. Why did you wait until a day later to give me the potion?”

“Didn't know how many potions might've already been taxing your system. The poison was wreaking its own havoc, too. And with so little blood left in you, I didn't dare risk it. So it was the old-fashioned method for stabilizing you, until I was certain your body could handle another dose of toxins. Watching, waiting, and getting water into you.”

“Long night, huh.”

A nonchalant shrug brushed it off. “I don't sleep much anyway.”

“So I've noticed.” He echoed her own words back at her, only to be rewarded with a sharp glance.

She studied him cautiously, and as he looked back at her, it was easy to tell that she was no less fatigued than she'd been when he first saw her. Not terribly well-hidden under her veneer of cheer.

“You didn't sleep at all tonight either, did you?” He ventured the question, and he somehow knew he'd disapprove of the answer.

A grunt was the periodically taciturn witcheress' only reply.

They set up their camp just inside the opening to the complex. They could always move further inside if need be, but as it was, they preferred to be as close to the fresh air as possible. She'd called it old. Judging from the smell that hung around the place it was closer to ancient. Mantis seemed fine with grazing in the little dell, and the two of them left the horse to his own devices while they established a decent camp.

In truth the cat had already handled much of it. A rather large stack of firewood was ready for use and their supplies and gear were lying in a semi-ordered heap that wasn't quite a stack. It took up a great deal more space than it had in their previous camp. She must have had it very neatly ordered and packed tightly there. He wondered why and voiced the question, he was curious about her seemingly semi-permanent set-up anyway. She merely grunted in response and asked him to set up a camp-fire. Looking at the heap itself only yielded one interesting piece of information: she did own a set of witcher's swords. Or at least, she owned a set of two swords. They were currently wrapped up tightly in protective cloth; clearly meant for long-term storage. Her lips compressed into a thin line, when she held them and put them away again before moving on to organizing other things.

He tried a couple more times to get a conversation going, but she was impervious to his attempts. Apparently she would speak of nothing other than their practical arrangements. Instead he settled for observing her – not that that had yielded him much new information by nightfall. She still didn't sit down – only crouched. Constantly moving, and if he sometimes felt a bit under the weather with the pains and aches of his healing injuries, she wasn't doing too well herself either. She might not have any injuries, but sometimes in a calm moment he noticed a light tremor in her hands, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what might cause that. Witchers were – for all intents and purposes – immune to diseases so she couldn't be sick, but she didn't seem to be quite as exhausted as to develop tremors. Was she really that good an actress?

Another night passed by the camp-fire during which he woke up only to find her still in a crouch staring into the darkness. This time it hadn't been dreams that had woken him but the sudden drop in temperature. He shuffled a bit closer to the fire and listened to the sounds of the wind steadily picking up as well. The high cliffs of the dell made for interesting echoes of the whistles and howls. The cat barely even moved, while he was awake, and she didn't at all acknowledge him. But the tension in her muscles was no less pronounced. He would venture a guess that it had gotten considerably worse.

The following day he was certain: It was exhaustion affecting her. Her tremors were increasing, as was the stress and fear in her scent. Coupled with her constant shifting around and her eyes flitting about, he was fairly certain she was developing a mild case of paranoia due to sleep deprivation. He had to try and help her with that before it became impossible – not to mention, before it got so bad they couldn't co-exist in their shelter from the storm. He just had no idea how, and she made it quite clear she wasn't about to let him anyway, the stubborn fool. She completely stopped responding to him with words communicating only in affirmative grunts.

All day he thought about it, and observed her behaviour descend further and further into thw twitchy state of a quarry that knows the predator has spotted it. But he didn't come up with anything. At least not until he routinely awoke in the middle of the night – this time because Mantis had retreated from the weather to join them inside this antechamber of the complex.

Again the woman was staring out in the darkness. And she was shaking visibly, he could see it from his side of the fire. This time it wasn't just the exhaustion tremors, though, now she was plain and simply cold. He rose from his bedroll, and made sure he was very clearly unarmed, as he brought his blankets with him to her side of the fire. Closer to her like this even the flickering firelight was enough to tell that her lips weren't the colour they were supposed to be.

“You're freezing.” The observation was mostly just meant to let her know that he meant to interact with her.

She looked up at him, her eyes distant still. Glazed. At least this time the scent of fear didn't increase at his approach as it had earlier in the day. He suspected it was due more to exhaustion rather than to any change in her disposition towards him.

Much too long time passed before she nodded in response. She was not doing well at all. He reached out to touch her, keeping his movement calm and measured; predictable – not that she seemed capable of predicting a falling rock's impact with the ground in her current state. The skin of her hand was cold and clammy to the touch, her fingers like ice. They shouldn't be – it wasn't quite that cold right next to the fire. She was far more exhausted than he'd expected, and he really needed to get her warm and sleeping.

“You watched over me, when I was out. I'm fine now. Mostly. You don't need to stay awake. Let me watch over you in return?”

She shook her head slowly. Her lips moved soundlessly several times before she finally said: “Can't.”

“Why not?”

Several shaky breaths passed. Several blinks. And then finally: “Don't need much sleep.”

“That's evidently bullshit.” He wanted to shout at her, but he managed to contain his exasperation. “You're dead on your feet, woman. In fact, you're so tired you're actually sitting on your ass right now, something I haven't seen you do until now.”

Panic and uncertainty flickered across her face. “I just can't,” she whispered. No, pleaded, he corrected.

“Why not?” He pressed on. “Like I said, you watched over me, when needed. The least I can do is return the favour. And you really need the sleep. You're cold as ice.”

“Still can't.”

“But why?” It was getting really difficult to keep the exasperation from his voice, but he thought he managed all right. Another thought occurred to him. He hadn't actually seen her sleep at all. “When **did** you last sleep?”

“No rest for the wicked, I guess.” Her voice was raw and thick with an unidentifiable mix of emotions, and he realised that at this point she was too tired to even try and hide anything. For one brief moment he considered whether this was his chance to get some more information out of her, but he dismissed the notion. He wouldn't stoop that low.

“Bullshit,” he admonished her instead. “Whatever bad stuff you've done, that alone does not define you.”

She didn't respond. Eskel finally decided on a course of action. “All right, look, you're tired and unable to stay warm – even by the fire.”

He threw one of his blankets over her legs as he spoke and then sat down behind her. She didn't even attempt to twist around and look at him, though he knew from personal experience what her instincts would be telling her right now. Damn, she was in bad shape. Wrapping the other blanket around himself he turned towards her, placed his legs on either side of her, being very careful not to touch her. He had the distinct feeling she would bolt like a frightened deer, if he moved too fast.

“Here. Lean back.” He instructed. “Even if you can't sleep, I can keep you warm. I'll be damned if I let the woman who saved my life freeze to death right next to me.” At this she did slowly twist and look over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were wary, but mostly just glazed over with exhaustion. She stared at him like that for a long time before she finally nodded, and Eskel let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

At first her back and shoulders were stiff against him, and she was so cold he was amazed she hadn't already succumbed to unconsciousness. The strength of her will clearly matched that of her body. Then as she soaked up warmth from him, he felt her slowly – gradually – relax more and more, and he cautiously wrapped his arms around her. To his amazement she didn't protest. This would end up working as he hoped, he was almost certain by now.

He almost missed it, when she sleepily muttered: “You really are a strange one, wolf.” Chuckling to himself he noted that she'd fallen asleep almost immediately after uttering the words. Good. He manoeuvred them both down on her bedroll, where he held her close. She was warmer than she had been, but definitely not yet able to maintain a sufficient body temperature on her own. Thus spooning her he settled in for a wakeful and uncomfortable night of watching over the witcheress, while the winds howled outside. At least they would help him stay awake.


	17. Interlude 8

“Awwww, isn't that sweet,” Lambert teased. “You know, usually women are more fun in bed, when they're awake.”

“Yeah, and in order to be properly awake, they need sleep at regular intervals, just like everyone else. Really, Lambert, do I need to explain the simplest of things to you?”

“Ohhh, waking up now, are we?”

Eskel nodded.

“I could tell,” Lambert continued, “you're beginning to sound like your boring self again.”

He smiled slightly. “Well, if you're all done wanting to listen, then I won't force the rest of the story on you.”

“Oh hey now, mister Broodypants, don't think I'll let you off that easily. Finish the story.”

“Or what? You'll insult me some more? Which will be different from usual how exactly?”

“Ahh, you got me there. All right, loverboy, I'll be on my best behaviour. Just finish the fucking story, you grouch.”


	18. Chapter 9

It had been an awkward morning, though his unlikely bedmate had only seemed moderately surprised at their sleeping arrangements. They had eaten, and she had spent a considerable amount of that time staring at him with her usual unreadable expression. Eskel figured he'd give her some time before making any attempts at conversation. She was easily the most confusing person he'd ever met, but he felt he was beginning to see the patterns in her behaviour. Now that she had actually slept, she was no longer paranoid and jumpy; merely her usual distrustful self.

Her energy levels being back to normal unfortunately also meant she would need something to do, as was quickly becoming very obvious. Being cooped up inside left her with nothing much of the sort. They had spent some of that energy on clearing some snow in the dell outside, so Mantis could graze. The patient horse took it in stride, when they improvised a cover for him made of a blanket and the waxed cover that had protected the cat's stash from the elements in their previous camp. It looked rather ridiculous, and hopefully the beast would have enough sense to come inside if it got colder again like he had during the night. At least this way, he could safely graze outside despite not having any winter coat to speak of.

Those things were long since done. Nothing more that desperately needed doing presented itself. Despite their activities Eskel had watched his companion go through a clearly well-practiced routine of weapons maintenance and by now she'd been pacing for over an hour. When she finally spoke, she confirmed his suspicions.

“Dammit, I'm going stir-crazy!”

“I noticed.” It was a casual remark, but she didn't appreciate it.

“Oh, does it bother you? Want me to go be restless somewhere else? Too fucking bad! Don't have that option.”

A slight shake of his head was all he awarded the hostility with, keeping his attention on his own blades and remaining silent. Whatever she needed to get out of her system, he didn't want to be the lightning rod for it.

Contrary to his expectations silence fell. It was tempting to look around to see what she might be doing, instead he listened. Her pacing slowed progressively as did her breathing, until finally she let out an agitated huff and stood still. The tension and tight control was audible in her now evenly measured exhalations. He heard the short intake of breath before she spoke again.

“I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.”

“Glad we agree on that.” Eskel wasn't sure it was wise to borrow a bit of Geralt's dry wit right now, but the cat wasn't the only one who was frustrated at the moment. He lucked out, though. Her quiet chuckle echoed through the fire-lit chamber.

“Hey, wolf, you think you're up for a fight?”

“Depends. With whom?”

“Me, obviously. A spar. What do you say?”

A number of scenarios, all due cause for concern, flitted through his mind. “I don't think I should be swinging a sword just yet.”

“I don't expect you to. I was thinking we could go hand-to-hand.” She lifted her fists and sank back into a ready stance with exaggerated movements, encouraging his reciprocation. “Come on. It'll be good for the both of us.”

He wasn't quite sure she was right about that, but she could be. “All right,” he agreed. “May as well find out how much I can do.”

Her face lit up in a smile – one of those that really made her look like a maniac because of her deformed mouth. On the one hand he was flattered by how she seemed to not be at all bothered by her deformities around him ever since that first awkward conversation – and the subsequent fuck, a baser part of him interjected – on the other hand, her liberal use of facial expressions really did an excellent job of reminding him why he usually refrained from using any – at least in any significant capacity.

Eskel put his weapons aside and got up. The cat had proceeded to pull off her tunic and seeing the sense in not getting their clothes all sweaty, he followed suit. Once again it gave him pause, when he noticed the appreciative glance she levelled at his exposed chest. He just could not get used to the idea that someone could find him attractive. She walked to his side. Despite the slight leer in her gaze she didn't initiate any outright flirting.

“Lemme just check your injuries again before we dish it out.”

“Yeah, don't want your efforts to come to nothing.”

“Oh, they won't. You've already healed rather well, and...” she trailed off as she carefully felt around the edges of the now mostly healed gash in his side.

If she didn't, he would. “And you just wanted to get your hands on me first?”

She looked up at him through her eye-lashes and smiled slightly but said nothing, just felt around the edges of the long line of stitches that held his sorely abused skin together.

Eventually she let out a small satisfied grunt. “They've sat for 10 days now. I think we should chance taking them out tomorrow. I'll be certain, when I see how your body responds to some exertion.” A pause. An uncertain look flitted across her features, and then she reached for his arm to check the stitches there. He turned slightly to meet her halfways, and patiently let her check what she wanted. Upon finishing she looked him over and finally acknowledged what he'd said: “But yes, I admit, you're not the only one here who appreciates the view.”

“So I see,” he commented as drily as he could manage. Her roving gaze had settled on his chest, and at his words she looked up to meet his eyes with that self-assured smirk he had to admit he envied her. At least a little bit. A month ago – if anyone had looked at him for long – he'd be feeling self-conscious and looking for the nearest exit. Truthfully, if it were anyone but this witcheress, he probably still would. Quite the pair they were. He had a hard time reconciling himself with the idea, that anyone could ever find him bearable to look at, but this impossible woman was doing a decent job of getting him there. He hoped, he in turn was getting her closer to accepting the notion that someone might genuinely like her and her company.

“So, do I pass inspection?”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely.” She winked at him. “On all counts.”

He grinned at her and gestured towards the open space in the room, wordlessly inviting her to lead on. She did and his eyes were once again drawn to her backside. The way she swayed her hips when she walked was absolutely enticing and- wait, he caught himself. Oh, the clever minx, trying to distract him like that – and succeeding, he mentally chided himself. Hold that thought for later.

They faced each other and both fell into a ready stance. Both he and Geralt made money on fist fights, when times were hard, but Eskel tried not to get into that sort of thing unless he absolutely had to. He preferred to avoid the attention that came with spectator sports like that. Even if there were extra coin to be earned as a pugilist, he'd rather keep his head down and find other ways, but unfortunately times were often hard and they were few and far between. It would be interesting to see how much practice the witcheress had in this. The way she moved told him she was as capable as any other witcher. His injuries, though they were healing nicely enough, would no doubt leave him at a disadvantage, it was only a question of how bad it would be.

Circling slowly they tried to get a read on each other. The cat stayed low, almost in a crouch, as if prepared to spring into action, whereas he stood taller, used to taking advantage of his reach. He knew she'd have spotted that immediately, but considering how he was only just trying out, what he was capable of after his injury, he didn't care. There was no point in deception and pretending at different styles than normal.

It seemed she had come to a similar conclusion, because without warning she suddenly sprang into action, going for his foremost knee. Eskel saw the feint for what it was and twisted his torso to get his kidneys out of her reach. It was only barely a success. She was fast. Very fast. Faster than he'd expected. And it seemed she wasn't going to hold back on that front.

More circling and then he saw his chance. Though she dodged the direct hit, what became a glancing blow to her shoulder brought her sufficiently off balance for him to sweep her legs out from under her. She twisted on her way down, and he felt her hand brush his injured side. Damn! That could have been a bad hit, and she'd just let him know she could have taken it if she wanted to. He followed her down, ready to pin her, but she had squirmed away before he could grab a hold of her.

Before he had turned enough to see, where she had positioned herself behind him, she planted a foot hard between his shoulder blades – once again he was painfully aware that she could have aimed at his head, but hadn't. Being considerably heavier than her and closer to the ground, he managed to keep his balance easily enough. He turned towards her and hid a good left hook with the movement. It connected, and she stumbled. It made his arm protest in pain, but he didn't care at the moment, she was only going to be off-balance for a brief moment. He pushed off the floor and tackled her, right shoulder first. This one she couldn't wiggle out of and they both went down, and he pinned her with an arm across her chest and shoulders.

The landing had knocked the air out of her lungs and she gasped slightly before she spoke. “Nice, wolf. You compensate well.” The compliment was accompanied by a wicked grin.

“Bullshit. I got lucky.” He let her go but remained crouched over her. “You could've opened up my injuries twice already.”

“Three times actually.” Her grin became utterly devilish. He heard the slight creak of her leather trousers as she gently poked his right side with the toe of her left boot. Damn, she could curl up in interesting ways. His thoughts immediately turned to other, less violent, activities, and he forced them back to the present. She was not the kind of opponent he was used to in hand-to-hand, he would need to stay sharp. He sat back end let her sit up.

“You're fast.”

“I know. And obviously a lot more agile than you're used to.” Her smile stayed, though the taunting devilishness had lessened – if only just slightly.

“Humble, too,” he joked, hoping she'd take it well.

She did. Her laughter echoed back from the dark corners. “I like you, wolf. You're a good sort.” The good-natured laughter shone brightly in her eyes as she got up again. “So. Wanna continue?”

“Definitely,” he answered, now with a smile of his own.

They went a few more rounds, before they called a halt to their antics. Both were covered in sweat and they grinned stupidly at each other with the exhilaration of intense exercise. The enjoyment hadn't come without a cost, however, as Eskel could feel every inch of his body protesting at having had its rest so rudely interrupted. He longed to sit down again and rub the soreness out of his muscles, but he knew if he sat down now, he wouldn't have the will to get up again. Instead he grabbed a pot and went outside to fill it with snow. Heated water for washing the worst of the sweat off seemed like a good idea.

Besides he needed to be somewhere, where the cat wasn't constantly in his peripheral vision. Sparring had definitely been a good idea. He felt invigorated, and they'd had the confirmation they wanted that he was healing up all right. There were still pains and aches, of course, but nothing alarming. He was fairly certain that her assessment of the stitches being ready for removal the following day was perfectly sensible. His head had still been a bit woozy, when he'd fallen hard a couple of times during their fight, and his left arm was making a nuisance of itself, but all in all it held, and having that assurance made him feel considerably better about the whole thing, messy though it was.

Now he just needed to figure out how to open up the subject of her school of origin. And how to keep himself from being distracted by how much he wanted her; wanted to feel her move beneath his hands again. All the time during their spar, he'd been painfully aware of their close proximity, and of how her scent told him she was just as aware of it as he was. It was maddening. She had made it clear that his interest made her uncomfortable, or at least his favourable opinion of her did, but at this point he had a hard time separating the two, and he would keep his promise and maintain the distance she apparently wanted.

Outside in the dell the snow was drifting down quietly. The powdery snow's gentle descent belied the howling of the winds round the mountain sides above. Two feet of snow covered the ground, except on those patches where Mantis had scraped it away to get to the grass underneath. Eskel made his way across the dell to catch a glimpse of the world outside through the narrow opening they'd entered through. There was nothing to see. Everything out there, where the winds had free reign, was a white blur. There was definitely something to be said for old, well-protected ruins and random strangers who knew their location. Even if the stranger was mystery all by herself. He shook himself out of his thoughts. It wouldn't do to get cold, so he quickly scooped up a pot full of snow and trudged back inside.

The cat was crouched by the fire, when he entered their dark refuge. She had stoked the flames and readied the rig for the pot. She looked at him with a small smile playing at the functional corner of her mouth. Her mood was vastly improved from their spar. Glad that he wasn't the only one whose spirits were considerably higher, Eskel hung the pot over the fire and crouched down to wait for the snow to melt and be of use.

It didn't take long, and soon they were both washing off the grime of the past couple of days. Eskel was acutely aware of the cat's nakedness next to him as she washed. It surprised him a little that it was easier to keep his own body from responding now, when they were both naked. During their spar his unexpected attraction to the strange woman had been a significant distraction, but standing next to her, both of them busy handling basic hygiene, he could calmly assess what he'd concluded before: She was in great shape, albeit rather gaunt, very gaunt in fact now that he really took the time to look – she seemed to have fallen on hard times – and she carried all the hallmarks of a witcher with a lot of experience with being in harm's way. He didn't know what to make of her – hard times were a witcher's lot, but not necessarily that hard.

She looked at him and met his eyes, raising an eyebrow. “What? Did I miss a spot?”

He chuckled. “No.” He briefly considered whether it was wise to continue, but if he wanted information out of her, he would have to. “Just noticing how thin you are. I hope my presence hasn't taken too much of a toll on your food reserves. You obviously need them.”

Her eyebrow stayed up. “Really? That's your concern right now?” Her amusement was plain to hear.

He shrugged non-committantly. Maybe he exaggerated it a bit, but he was walking a fine line between being as friendly as he wanted to and being no more friendly than she wanted him to. “You've been plenty concerned with my health. And I'm grateful. Can't I be concerned for yours in return?”

She pondered that for a bit and then nodded slowly. “I suppose that's fair enough. Just unexpected is all.”

“Yeah, I get it. Avoiding people has that effect.”

The cat just snorted.

“Really, though,” he continued: “You eating enough?”

“I wasn't. Obviously.” She sent him a lop-sided grin. “It's been a harsh winter.”

“Really? Not around here. It's been mild this year. These are the first proper snows we've had. Where've you been?”

Her eyes widened a bit and she looked away. “Oh uhm, not harsh like that. Harsh as in, I've been a bit down on my luck. I settled here for a bit to hunt game and recover.” She must have let her guard down more than he expected, to let a lie be so obvious.

She kept her eyes averted as she finished up her washing and picked up her clothes again. What the hell was she hiding? She was hiding something. That much he could tell. “And I rudely interrupted your recovery. Didn't you say you were recovering from your foray into these ruins?” He'd best keep her talking.

“Heh, yeah.” She mumbled something he didn't catch.

“What was that?”

“Oh, just pointing out that it was really your horse who interrupted me. You weren't in any condition to do much of anything.” She looked at him then, and their eyes met.

Eskel was fairly certain that mind reading had never been among his abilities, but nonetheless her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Please don't ask, please don't ask. She was dodging like her life depended on it. The desperation and panic he'd almost come to expect from her at random moments lay lurking just under the surface. For fuck's sake, what other sins did she have to confess to? She was still looking at him, worry etched in the lines around her eyes. She'd grown 30 years older in as many heartbeats. He would ease off. There had to be another way to get her talking.

“True. I'm lucky to have a horse with good instincts. Stayed with me when I was injured, and had the good sense to carry me to the nearest other person,” he said and tried to keep his movements casual, when he reached for his own clothes.

The worry lines on the witcheress' face smoothed somewhat, so he continued: “And someone who could patch me up and even spar with me, no less. I usually don't **get** that lucky. No idea what I did to deserve it this time.”

“Probably saved a damsel in distress somewhere,” she offered, smiling gratefully as she followed his initiative of joking to avoid the things she didn't want to talk about. Relief lifted the tones of her voice considerably. Whatever it was she wasn't telling him, it had her all out of sorts.

“And since the damsel couldn't stand the sight of me, the Fates sent me you instead, is that it?” He shot back. Self-deprecating jokes were his home turf.

“I, uhhh, don't think I thought that one through. Sorry.” It sounded genuine, too.

“What for?”

“I didn't mean to talk about...” she gestured at her own face and nodded at him. “You asked me not to.”

“Don't worry about it. I know what I look like. It frightens people; especially women.”

She stopped in the middle of lacing her trousers and straigtened up to look at him. “I don't think that's the entire explanation.”

“How so?”

“Haven't you noticed how quite a few of our brethren seem to have plenty of luck with women?”

Eskel snorted at that. Of course he had. “What's your point?”

“Remember my phrase that nearly made you laugh your stitches out?”

Ohh, now he saw where she was heading with it. He nodded.

The witcheress continued: “In my experience, when people see scars, they tend to imagine the pain and suffering that left them.” She returned to dressing herself while talking, her mind obviously only partially on the task.

“Yeah, makes sense, I guess.”

“The weird thing about this kind of empathy is that people don't imagine you going through that pain. They imagine themselves going through it. **I** imagine that must be quite the mood killer, if you haven't been through that kind of pain yourself and know what it's like and how to handle it.”

“And so those who haven't can't bear to be around those, whose scars have them imagining the very worst their minds are able to conjure,” Eskel finished the line of thinking. He was vaguely aware he'd begun to talk like one of the textbooks Vesemir had made them sit through. He shook himself out of it. “How do you know this?”

“I tend to observe people rather than interact with them.” She grimaced. “For much the same reason as you, I s'pose. Besides, I remember feeling like that. At least somewhat. I think.”

Eskel studied her closely, trying to determine whether they were heading into dangerous territory again. Her jaw had clenched again, but her breathing was calm. Who was he kidding? Everything was potentially dangerous territory with this cat. He took the plunge: “You remember that kind of stuff from before your Trial?”

She nodded. Still tense but not panicked. “I... was a bit older than candidates usually were.”

“Huh, so you got to have more of a childhood than most of us.”

“I wouldn't say that.” Instantly she was back to the weird dead tone that unnerved him so. She wasn't looking at him, but Eskel knew if she did, she'd have the accompanying deadened gaze, he'd seen before. Before he could think of anything he might say, she'd taken a deep, shaky breath.

“I don't know why it haunts me still after so many years.”

“What does?”

“My life before I became a witcher.”

“You remember much of it?”

“Much more than I care to. It wasn't much of a life.”

“How so?”

“I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just say that, though a witcher's life is tough as shit, it's still in many ways a better life than what I had before.”

“Fair enough. I won't ask about it.”

“Thanks.”

They finished up and Eskel went to throw the remains of the now lukewarm water outside.

“Hey, wolf?”

He half-turned to see her watching him. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. I mean it.” The cautious, lop-sided smile she sent him told him that she knew he had a multitude of questions he wanted to ask. How old had she been, when she became a witcher, for her to have had an actual life before? And what had happened? And might her age have something to do with even surviving the Trial?

He wasn't quite sure what she had thanked him for, though. They'd both agreed to not asking about each other's sensitive subjects. And they'd both respected their agreement. He went outside and chucked the water out. When he returned and saw her sitting by the fire preparing another of the now familiar stews that would burn his ears from the inside. It was then that he finally managed to nail down the words that had tugged at the edges of his mind, since she uttered them. She **imagined** it would be a mood killer if you didn't know such pain already. And then the vague talk about her childhood. What the fuck kind of pain had she gone through so early in life?

He joined her by the fire.

“I think you're right,” he started. Talking was good, pick a topic that's known good to start from.

“'bout what?”

“My stitches. The skin held just fine during our spar. I think your plan of removing them tomorrow is sound.”

She nodded. “We'll do that, then.”

“Think we might have another spar, as well?”

The way her face lit up, was a stark contrast to the battered visage she sported. Eskel wasn't quite sure what he'd done to achieve it; he'd certainly managed to walk right into plenty of her sore spots, but at some point, she'd begun letting her guard down and letting him see more of her. So she liked sparring. A lot, apparently.

“Absolutely. You'll want to test your skin without the stitches?”

“Well, yeah. That, and it was a fun way to pass some time.”

“So you did enjoy it.”

“Of course, I did. Why would you think I didn't?”

“Oh, I just... I'm a bit rusty. I don't spar often.”

Rusty? “Shit, if this was you being rusty, I wouldn't want to fight you at your best.”

“Don't underestimate yourself. You're still moving slightly sluggishly. I don't think you notice it, but I do.”

She was right. He had been aware of protecting his injured body parts and not do something stupid, but being slower? No. He shook his head.

“Thought so,” she confirmed, and gestured that he hand her his plate for a helping of their spicy stew. He did. “Now that you've started pushing yourself again, your brain should catch up soon enough. Once you're caught up, I'd better hope I am, too.” She handed him a hearty helping.

“Hey, if I don't get to underestimate myself, then neither do you, all right?”

She chuckled and put her hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough, wolf. Still, our usefully enhanced constitutions work well for wound healing. Less well for compensating malnourishment. You, uhhhh, saw that. I've got a bit more time to go before I'll be fully recovered.”

“That's why I asked about your food ressources.” He looked pointedly at her plate.

“Relax, wolf. You provided some excellent wyvern steaks that I wouldn't have had otherwise. It'll be fine. We'll both be fine,” she glanced around with a mock, haughty flounce, “if not exactly comfortable.”

He laughed and only barely managed to keep stew from ending up in his nose. He recovered quickly, though. “I mean it. You should eat more than that.”

She sighed: “You might be right.”

“You know I'm right,” he insisted.

A nod. “Yeah.” She caved and took some more.

They ate in silence, slowly savouring the comforting heat of the spicy stew. Frequently they glanced at each other – sometimes their eyes met. Eskel still wanted to ask her a million questions about a million things, but when they'd finished their meal, and were ready to interact again all he actually dared to voice was: “You spar often?”

“Huh, I wish. I don't really have any to spar with.”

“Really? Not even during the winters?”

“Does it look like there's anybody here but you and me?”

“You know what I mean.”

She tilted her head. “I... don't, actually.”

“The winter,” he elaborated, “don't you usually head back home to train with the others? At your school, I mean.”

She looked away, though he did catch a disgusted sneer before she schooled her features again. “No. No, I don't. I don't ever head back. Not if I can help it. It's not a home. Hasn't been for a long time now.” The quiet vehemence, with which she said it, was intense.

“But where **do** you go, then?”

She shrugged. “Nowhere. Everywhere. The Path lies open year round.”

“Don't you ever need a break?”

Her eyes sought his again. “I'm here, am I not?”

“This is taking a break for you? Clearing out a ruin. Of necrophages, I assume?”

A nod. And then that bitter, self-deprecating smile he recognized from his own repertoire.

“I seem to not be very good at that, don't I? Taking a break.”

He chuckled. “Well, if even your breaks involve doing Witcher's work. And for free no less...”

She snorted in return. “You can take the witcher out of the school, but you can't take the schooling out of the witcher, I guess.”

“I know the feeling. Even if I do enjoy the sparring, when I'm back at Kaer Morhen, I usually get restless.”

“Really? You? You seem so calm. Stoic even.”

It was Eskel's turn to snort. “No offense, but in your presence, everyone would seem calm.”

“None taken. I suppose you're right,” she grimaced, though it turned into a half-grin. “'M not really the picture of self-possession. At least not when I'm, ehhh, yeah, let's just call it on break.” She paused briefly as if to re-think a decision. “Usually, I'd be a lot less, uhhh-”

“Antsy and paranoid?” Eskel helpfully supplied.

“Yeah, that.” She sort of shrunk with the admission, her shoulders hunching a bit.

“Don't worry about it,” he brushed it off. She'd already told him more than he expected her to. So her odd state of mind hadn't exclusively been because of his unexpected appearance in her camp, nor because of her sleep deprivation. That was interesting. And it begged the question, what the hell had she been doing here before he arrived? Clearing out an old ruin wasn't an adequate explanation by far. “Exhaustion can do that to anybody.”

The cat exhaled slowly through her nose. “Yeah, I know. Don't like it one bit, though. Doesn't exactly make for dignified companionship either.”

“Hey. I told you. Don't worry about it. I'm not holding it against you.”

She smirked bitterly. “No. You wouldn't.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying I should?”

A vigorous shake of her head denied his suggestion. He awaited a further elaboration, but it was long in the coming. Eventually she simply got up, picked up her daggers and headed deeper into the darkness, away from their camp fire.

“Where are you going?” What was she up to now?

“Going to go see if there's any interesting loot in the rooms I cleared before you showed up.”

He snorted. That was the worst excuse ever.

“And...,” she continued. “I need to think. Sorry.”

“'S fine.” His sigh showed more of his exasperation than he'd intended. “Hey, just one question?”

The cat stopped just at the edge of the fire light. “What?”

“I know there's something else you're not telling me. About what you've been doing here.” Eskel heard her leathers creak more than saw it, when she tensed and shifted. “It's fine. Just tell me it's not some terrible atrocity you're hiding.”

“ **Another** terrible atrocity, you mean.” She bitterly corrected him.

“Just answer the question,” he insisted, ignoring her self-deprecation. “Please?”

The silence stretched between them. He could wait, he wasn't the one going anywhere. He could hear Mantis snorting and stamping his hooves outside. The wind howled further away. The fire crackled. At the edge of the darkness the cat stood, stock still and staring at him, an evaluating look on her face. Yellow eyes reflected the flickering light from the fire and underscored the uncertainty he knew she was working her way through; the uncertainty that had hung constantly between them.

When she moved again, he knew she'd made a decision. She relaxed ever so slightly and her shoulders slumped again.

“No,” she said quietly; at that distance it was barely audible over the fire crackling next to him. “No atrocities. It's true, I haven't told you everything about my stay here, but I haven't lied either. I've explored the ruin, killed some necrophages.” A pause in which she swallowed thickly. Her voice sounded odd, when she continued. “Spent a long time alone. Very long. Gotten used to the solitude and... I really just need to think.”

He looked at her, attempting to decipher the veracity of her words as if it would be written on her face. Maybe it was. For a brief moment he thought he saw a shadow of exhaustion of a different kind flit across her face, but he could have imagined it. All things considered it was a better answer than he'd hoped for, when he asked. He nodded and sent her a slight smile. “Don't be gone too long. I'd have to come save the damsel in distress.”

A cautious smile slowly formed on the cat's face as well at his reference to her own joke, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

“If we're lucky I'll be back with well-aged booze.”

With that she turned around and strode into the darkness leaving him to his thoughts.


	19. Interlude 9

“Nice. A spar in the darkness. Interesting choice of foreplay.”

Eskel resisted the urge to throw things again; he wouldn't rise to the bait. Instead he corrected the facts. “We had plenty of light from the fire.”

“A fight by fire-light, then. Even better.”

“Yeah, you're a poetic genius. Bet you could give Dandelion a run for his money.”

“Ah, but who would kill my share of monsters, then?” The younger witcher was about to launch into a parody of Geralt's flamboyant friend, when he noticed Eskel's silent glare. “What?”

“You wanted me to tell you the story, but you keep interrupting.”

“Eskel, my friend, that's because you need to work on your story-telling skills. Not enough fighting. Not enough fucking.”

“I seem to recall someone complaining about **you** building too much suspense. Why, I think it was only last night.”

“Psh, Yenn has no taste,” Lambert brushed off his reminder. “Besides, that was just about a troll like any other, whereas you have been sitting on this gem of a tale for much longer than you should have. For shame, Eskel.”

He had no other response but a heavy sigh. There was no way he could explain the entirety of why he'd kept it all to himself. Part of it was obviously that it was none of their business. Another was that it had seemed so private and secret, both because of the wintry seclusion he'd shared with the cat, but also because of the things she'd chosen to share with him.

“We're getting to the fighting. And the fucking. Don't worry.”

“You better not be holding out on me. Or do I need to break out 'Vesemir' again?”

“I **would** be getting to the fighting and the fucking if you'd shut up and let me tell the story you've spent all morning demanding.”

“All right, all right. So **did** she return with booze?”

“Yeah, she did. Enough so we could restock a few potion supplies.”

“Oh no. Don't tell me that you wasted perfectly good booze on potions? Tell me you enjoyed even just some of it.”

Though he might be waking up, the hangover was no less manifest at this point. The thought of booze didn't exactly appeal as much as it would otherwise. Lambert, however, seemed no less enthusiastic and awaited his answer.

“We did,” Eskel confirmed. “We just had to get past the fighting first.”

“Did you get around to the fucking before or after getting drunk, then?”

Eskel smirked. “Both.”

Lambert whooped in approval and Geralt sleepily complained from his bunk. “Now that's what I'm talking about. And all those years I thought you didn't have it in you.”

“Have what?”

“To shrug off duty and just live a little.” He laced the word duty with the unmistakable tones of Vesemir.

“I've been living just fine. Just don't talk about it,” Eskel protested.

Lambert sniffed in mock offense. “So what happened? She removed your stitches, and then what?”


	20. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter contains sexual content towards the end. Semi-explicit and fully consensual, no warnings beside the Mature rating.

The cat had returned late into the night. Very late. Eskel partially awoke to the quiet clinking of glass, and he saw how she unloaded a selection of dusty bottles next to their supplies. He didn't speak, didn't let her know he was even awake, though he suspected she might have noticed the change in his breathing. There was no way to be sure, however, so he stayed still and just watched her.

Once she was done, she quietly crept to her bedroll, without even glancing in his direction. She sat there for a while once again just staring into the darkness. She sat there long enough for Eskel to start worrying again. He did not relish the thought of having to go through another round of her sleep-deprived paranoia.

In the morning when he woke, he was relieved to see that for once she wasn't already awake. In fact she was sleeping quite heavily even snoring lightly. Such normalcy was almost weird in their current situation and it made him smile a little as he raked the fire and placed a couple of fresh logs on the embers.

He ate, then went through a few of his practice routines. He even found that he could wield his swords without any pain beyond the background aches, he'd gotten used to. Oh yes, he was definitely on the mend quickly now. And he owed it to one of the strangest people he'd ever met, with no idea how he could ever repay her. Putting his weapons away he sat back down to cool off a bit before putting on his shirt. He sat there and just looked at the sleeping witcheress pondering his dilemma. He couldn't know what to offer her without knowing more about her, but by pressing her for more information he risked alienating her completely. And her odd insistence on being friendly but not friends was... well, he had no idea what that was; confusing to say the least.

By his estimation nearly four hours had passed since he rose. He **had** taken his time training. Judging from the light outside it was close to noon and he finally succumbed to impatience and admitted to himself that he'd gotten used to her company enough that he really wanted her to wake up. Scratch that. He **wanted** to wake her up – he fucking **liked** her company.

Crouching by her side he realised yet another unusual thing about her. Granted, he didn't have all that much experience with people sleeping in his company, but he knew enough to know that most people relaxed in their sleep; that frowns and tensions would disappear, while worries were forgotten in sleep. That clearly didn't apply here. The cat was frowning, and her mouth was tense. At first he considered whether she might be having a nightmare, but after a while he dismissed that notion. The grimace was too constant, too still. She had said she didn't sleep much, but she'd never said anything about why. He wondered, but he would not get any answers as long as she was still asleep.

Eskel placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. He had no idea what to expect from her awakening. Mere seconds later he thanked his witcher reflexes for having caught the cat's wrist as quickly as he had. The tip of her dagger was poised at his belly, ready to gut him. He sought her gaze.

When the befuddlement of sleep and the abrupt awakening lifted, her eyes widened in shock. The sound of the dagger clattering to the stone floor was jarring in the stillness between them. “Shit. Sorry!” She tore her hand free of his grip and scrabbled away from him. “Fuck, wolf, I didn't mean to... Are you...? Did I...?”

“Hey, relax.” He held his hands up and motioned for her to settle down. “Nothing happened. I saw it coming.”

The cat's eyes flicked between his face and his torso, obviously checking for injuries. “You did?”

“You're an angry sleeper,” he tried to lighten the mood.

“I... heh,” she breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed somewhat though not fully, “I suppose there's an upside to that, then.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, lowered his hands again and got up. “I appreciated the warning frown.”

She snorted, then laughed a little. It was strained. “Still sorry, though.”

“Wasn't your fault. I don't blame you.” Even if it was obvious to him that she blamed herself.

For the first time their roles were reversed. Eskel had been up before her, and thus for once he could be the one to hand her a plate of food. She accepted it with an awkward smile. “You didn't have to-”

“Neither did you the other mornings,” he interrupted, now quickly losing patience with her inability to just accept the proffered gesture. “Yet here we are.”

She nodded and ate the meal in silence. Eskel for his part waited as patiently as he could, and when she was done he opened the conversation back up.

“You really don't respond very well to kindness. How come? You clearly have no problem being kind, yourself.”

The woman huffed bitterly. “I'm used to kindness always having a cost, and too often higher than I'm willing to pay. Or that it isn't genuine.”

He was about to argue, but now it was her turn to hold up a hand to stop him.

“I know, what you're going to say, wolf. Your kindness doesn't come with a cost. I know, it doesn't. Neither does mine. My reaction has nothing to do with you specifically. It's an old habit, based on old experiences. I'm trying to curb it and keep my adverse reactions to a minimum. Really.”

“This another reason you stay away from people?”

“No. It's a reason I stay away from certain, very specific people.” She sounded tired, despite having slept in.

“I'm guessing if I ask you about it, this is one of the things you don't want to talk about?”

“Honestly? I don't know. I hadn't considered it. And...” she faltered. “I've never actually talked about it.”

That sounded awfully familiar to him. “I know the feeling,” he offered as the only kind of olive branch he could think of.

She nodded. “I figured as much. Seems there's plenty you don't talk about.”

He could hardly fault her for that assumption, so he just nodded.

“Talking or not, your stitches...” she indicated his side with a tilt of her head. “Wanna see about removing them?”

“You awake enough to do so?”

“What's that supposed to mean? I've slept plenty.” Why she was all defensive, well, he did have some idea by now.

“You just seemed tired, is all.”

“Heh, nothing gets past you, huh?” The compliment wasn't lost on him.

“Not much.” He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was about as used to compliments as she was to genuine kindness.

She sighed and gave up the resistance. “I'm considerably less exhausted now than I was, when I stitched you up. That good enough for you?” Though it might have sounded cheeky, the question seemed genuine enough.

Eskel nodded and smiled. “Fair point.” He hesitated a bit and then asked: “You mean to do it now, or do you have any morning rituals you wanna go through first?”

She looked at him oddly as if not understanding the question, and then as understanding dawned, she chuckled a bit. “I do have one. It involves making breakfast, but that seems unnecessary. Besides,” she glanced sideways at the opening to the outside, “seems a bit late in the day for morning rituals.”

“Can't argue with that.” He sent her a grin as he turned to sit with his previously broken arm towards the fire.

The cat sat down next to him, sniffed, and spoke: “You've been training.”

“Huh, yeah. What about it?” She was far more focused on scent than he was, and it kept surprising him.

She brought the small, sharp knife to the first of the stitches and removed them with every bit as practiced a hand as he'd come to expect from her. “Everything still feeling as it should? No weird pulling or tightening anywhere?”

Of course. She was merely looking after her patient. Another couple of stitches went the way of the first. “No, nothing unexpected,” he assured her. “Stitches itch. 'S gonna be good to get 'em out. But that's it. Well, that and the residual ache. Nothing worrying.”

“Glad to hear it.” She didn't look at his face, but rather kept her eyes trained on her work. Thus she didn't notice him looking at her, and it lent him an opportunity to observe the genuinely pleased smile that played around her disfigured mouth. No, there was no way he could find it in himself to judge her harshly for anything she'd done or whatever she might be. They were witchers; not exactly moral beacons of society, but this one couldn't possibly be as bad as she thought herself to be. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. Had she wanted to pretend at anything with him, she was clever enough to have done a much better job of it than she had. He had to believe she genuinely cared about his survival and well-being. Everything she'd done supported it, even if her behaviour **was** strange.

She poked him gently in the ribs. “Lost in thought?”

“Uh yeah. Did you say something?”

“Mm hm. Flex for me, will you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, that was new.”

The sound she made would have embarrassed many a fine lady, but this woman was a witcher and right then she was spluttering with a free-er laughter than he'd heard from her yet in their time together. It was contagious.

When they'd both caught their breath again, they could barely hold in another round of laughter when their eyes met.

“That... that came out a little differently than I'd intended,” she admitted, still breathy from laughing.

He just nodded mutely. That much had been obvious. And he was still reeling slightly from the realisation that she was actually able to laugh. Previously the very notion would have seemed absurd, but now...

“You know, wolf,” she continued, “it's very 'you' to not just do so. That's one of the things I've managed to figure out about you. All the attention I give you, you try your damndest to deflect. Now please tighten your bicep, so I can see for myself that I haven't messed up.”

This time he just did as she asked, waiting for her to inspect and continue.

“Thank you.” A quick gesture indicated they switch places so she could get to his rigth side. “We're alike in that regard.”

“Not gonna deny that,” he conceded.

“Would be silly of you to do so. It's fairly obvious. Even if you **are** better at being humourous about it than I am.” Quick fingers got to work on his side.

“Hey, c-,” he stopped himself, he'd almost called her 'cat'. Now was not yet the time. He improvised quickly. “C- could you hold a bit and wait for me to catch up? You're different. Now, I mean.”

Her hands stilled and she looked up at him. “Well, I did go and have a good long think about things last night.”

“And?” He pressed on, holding her gaze.

“I decided to be somewhat less, uhhh, unsociable. I haven't exactly made things easy for you.” Her eyes shifted away from his. “And I'm sorry about that. You're all right, wolf, it's just that I haven't met a lot of people I could say that about. I tend to not trust my perceptions, when one does come along. And usually my misgivings are proven to be justified. But you're all right.”

Eskel stared. He was aware that he stared. He was aware that it was rude to stare. But nonetheless he stared. This was not a development he'd seen coming. Absent-mindedly his eyes searched for patterns in the marred skin on her neck, tracing invisible paths in the strangely healed lines and cracks. There was no pattern to be found. None. And he stared at her as she stared into the fire. He realised she was waiting for his response.

“Uhh, what made you change your mind?”

She looked back at him and sought his gaze again. “Last thing you said before I left last night.”

“What? My joke about having to come get the damsel in distress?”

“Oh, no, not that. Well, that too, but the point you made before that. Asking the question you did and then accepting my answer – or as much of one as I gave you.” She swallowed. “That's considerably more trust than I've shown you. And I'm...”

Eskel knew what she had been going to say when she trailed off; She was ashamed. That much was obvious. He decided to throw her a line.

“You haven't been unreasonable. Confusing, sure, but not unreasonable. You made the point yourself, remember? It would be pretty damn stupid of you to first save my life and then kill me. The fact that you'd even bothered to save my hide pretty much showed me that you probably meant me no harm. But there's been nothing of this sort going the other way. We both know I owe you big time for all you've done for me, but we also know that people renege on their debts.”

He wasn't sure what she was relieved about, but there was definitely relief in her eyes.

“I don't blame you for wanting to be careful. You didn't know who I was, and I haven't exactly told you much. Didn't expect you to really be interested after you tried to scare me off with your story.”

She snorted and shook her head. “I didn't expect a fellow witcher to scare that easily. I actually meant it when I said you deserved to know what you'd be holed up with here.”

“Don't say that,” he admonished.

“Say what?” She looked puzzled.

“Yeah that. Don't say what; say who. You're a person; not a thing.”

The witcheress smiled sadly. “There are those who would disagree with you.”

“World's full of stupid shits,” he insisted.

She snorted derisively. “Truer words were never spoken.”

They shared a smile. Eskel offered the friendliest one he could manage in his current state of residual astonishment, the cat's was cautious.

Returning to her work on his stitches she was visibly relaxed, her breathing much calmer than he recalled having heard it before. She worked her way down his side, and when he twisted a bit, he could see the red scar tissue settle, where the stitches had been removed. It itched like hell, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to reach around and scratch at it.

The witcheress paused and sat back. “There. Need to get you out of your clothes to get to the rest.”

Eskel nodded and got to his feet. Already his skin felt better – less irritated – when he moved about. He quickly stepped out of his trousers and sat back down letting the cat continue her work.

“Feels better already, huh?”

“So, you heard that.”

“Of course,” she confirmed with a slight laugh, “and that was a heartfelt sigh of relief I ever I heard one.”

“I'm not denying it. I hadn't realised just how fucking much they annoyed me until now that they're gone.”

“Your breeches?”

“No, the stit-,” he stopped himself, when he realised she had been joking, and facepalmed with a groan. “Damn, you're not making it easy for me to keep up.”

“You want me to?” There was no mistaking the cheek in her tone, even if he couldn't see her face, bent as it was towards the stitches in his upper thigh.

He shook his head. “No. I like you like this. As long as you don't expect my poor, recently concussed brain to match your wit.”

A chuckle that sounded outright warm answered his request. “I did have you figured as more of a doer than a joker. And that's definitely nothing to hold against anyone; least of all a monster slayer. There. All set.” She patted his thigh to punctuate her declaration.

He inspected the long reddish line running the length of his torso and thigh. The new skin had grown in just fine, though it did still feel oddly ticklish at the edges. Whether that was an effect of tissue re-growth or the last remaining irritation from the wyvern poison he had no way of knowing. Either way, he was in one piece thanks mainly to the woman next to him, who was meticulously picking up all the little pieces of thread and chucking them into the fire.

He hadn't dared hope for it, but her change in mood and attitude seemed to remain, and over the next couple of days they sparred more and talked more. Mind, they still spent far more time just being silent in each other's company, but the silence was a lot less tense now, and they also still avoided their sensitive topics, but sharing stories of memorable monster hunts and ignorant employers – two staples of any witcher's life – could keep them occupied as much as they cared to be.

Despite the far more comfortable mood that reigned between them, the witcheress nonetheless grew agitated and testy over time. After their morning spar on the third day of this odd, new companionship she suggested they go exploring.

“Anything in particular you're looking for?” He wouldn't deny being immensely curious about what she'd been doing here before his arrival.

“Just to explore. I told you before we moved up here. I haven't cleared out the whole place. Not even sure how big it is. I'm going stir-crazy again, and I need to do something. I will be heading down there. You wanna join me? Test your strength against something that actually means you harm?”

He supposed he could take on a couple of necrophages and the like without too much trouble. His side had healed up nicely under the witcheress' watchful care, and with a bit of caution both it and his arm would probably stand the test of a real fight. The sparring matches they'd had, hadn't revealed anything alarming. Besides, he'd have a very competent partner at his back. At least so he hoped. He was willing to take that chance, so he nodded his assent.

“Excellent!”

While gearing up for trouble he caught himself stealing glances at the cat. Her behaviour was animated now, movements still quick, but now they were brisk and measured rather than agitated and borne of frustration. Oh yes, he was absolutely certain that heading for a fight was right for her; she was spoiling for it. He couldn't deny a certain curiosity on his part either. He wanted to see **her** fight a real fight as well, both to determine what she was capable of should things go badly between them later on, but also because he knew what kind of strength her body held, and he'd be lying if he claimed he wouldn't appreciate the sight of her in action.

She led the way into the complex, torch in hand and a smile on her face. He recalled her words about having cleared out the upper levels and believed them. The remains of a few ghouls awaited them, but his companion paid them no heed. She seemed more concerned with the walls. Stepping over another heap of ghoul remains he joined her in looking at a faded mural.

“I first thought they were dwarven, these ruins, but these paintings...”

“Yeah, look elven to me,” he remarked.

“Think the place might have been a joint venture between their peoples?”

“Could just as well have been an elven painter hired to do the decorations. Artists do work for hire, you know, just like the rest of us.”

“Right...” she agreed, sounding a little absent. Quickly she shook herself out of it. “Either way, not what we came for. It's this way.”

She led them down a hallway to an opulent double staircase leading down into the depths. She lit a couple of sconces atop the balustrade lining the stairs and galleries.

“See, you wouldn't expect something like this when you just see the outer entrance, would you?”

Eskel shook his head in dawning understanding of what had made her want to explore further down here. “No, what the fuck is this place?”

“Fuck if I know, wolf. I've no idea, but from what I've seen so far, it may have been an underground city. It's big. Huge even. At least in terms of what it should be possible to maintain below the surface.”

“A mine?” he suggested.

The witcheress shrugged. “I've seen no carts and no mining tools, but they may turn up further down.” She paused. “Or out to a side somewhere. I have no doubt that a map might come in handy here at some point.”

They headed down the stairs side by side. Walking this close to each other Eskel could smell the excitement emanating from the woman beside him. She was really itching for it, and her attitude affected him as well. He found himself looking forward to the action.

They descended two levels and left the torch by the stairs. With the sconces they'd lit on the way down there was plenty of light in the sprawling stairwell, even if it was only a shadow of its former opulence. That was where they quaffed their Cat potions and headed into the darkness. It didn't take long before they could hear the shuffling of rough feet ahead.

The hallway they had chosen opened up into a room, where at least a handful of creatures were to be found. Eskel indicated to the cat that he'd go left, she nodded and took herself towards the right side of the room. Flanking the ghouls left the critters with hardly a chance to defend themselves, before a swift end befell them. They made a valiant attempt, but against two witchers working together their plight was hopeless.

Standing amidst the carnage they both took stock of the scene and of each other. Eskel was absolutely certain now. The ghouls taken down by himself were in pretty poor condition – more often than not in two or more pieces. Those who had fallen to the cat's blades on the other hand had deep puncture wounds, severed spines, and wounds meant to bleed the victim out. There really were no doubts to be had about her school of origin. Now, how to confront her about it? Probably not with blades in hand. He'd continue biding his time, though plans postponed now for a few days were beginning to form fully in his mind.

It was clear that the structures they were making their way through was an entire underground town, as she'd theorized, and much to their disgust they had stumbled into the necropolis. They didn't have any real problems dispatching the necrophages seeking to halt their advance; that was, they didn't until they ran into what might have been the family elders.

The hall they found themselves in was something of a mausoleum; perhaps a royal tomb. Set apart from the rest of the necropolis and its many alcoves with interred dead, this room was a sprawling wide open space with a number of raised dais on most of which large sarcophagi stood. Eskel didn't need to study the murals in this room to know that it probably housed the earthly remains of whatever family or group of oligarchs had ruled this underground realm.

Whatever the deceased had been in life, now they were merely silent neighbours to the large group of necrophages that had quite clearly taken up residence. For a mausoleum it looked uncharacteristically lived-in. What was worse: the residents included at least three graveirs, three cemetaurs, worrying numbers of ghouls, and who knew how many more would be hiding in the shadowed corners and behind sarcophagi. There might be two of them, and they might be witchers, but if surrounded they would be no less vulnerable to fatal wounds than anybody else. And the inhabitants had already seen them. Those nearest to them were closing ranks and moving forward to bid them a bloody welcome.

His companion, though having sported a disconcerting grimace of joyful glee for most of their foray, did have the decency to look somewhat concerned. The corner of her mouth that was still in working order was tense. Remembering what she'd said about a painful meeting with a cemetaur in her youth, Eskel surmised she probably wasn't too happy to see this many at once.

“Back to back,” he whispered. There would no point in flanking the creatures. There were so many of them that they could have the both of them surrounded individually.

The cat nodded, her lips narrowed in grim determination. This would be a challenging fight, and it was too late to back out. The first of the ghouls were charging at them.

They stepped into the room to meet the welcoming committee head on. Eskel hadn't really thought to keep an eye on the cat's fighting style. He had seen the results, and they had handled each their own groups of enemies, but now necessity forced them to coordinate their moves. He didn't have much time to regret his lack of paying attention, however. As the first of the ghouls took a swing at him, he easily parried and lopped its arm off. He spun to the right to meet the next attacker, feinting and creating an opening to dispatch it fully before the one-armed ghoul would regain its courage.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the witcheress duck low and dart quickly back and forth between three attacking ghouls, two of which were bleeding profusely and probably closer to dying than either of them realised just yet. Her fast steps were inaudible over the sounds of fighting, but he could nonetheless sense the faint hiss of her breath as she spun and dodged. The third ghoul was about to get a lucky shot at her back, he saw, but he couldn't twist all the way there in time. Only enough to cut a deep gash in its leg, making it stumble, giving his companion ample opportunity to dodge its attack and kill it. He only heard it go down, as he lopped the head off another that was already stumbling from where the cat had hamstrung it, he had never noticed the cat deal the wound. Finally he got a clear swing at the one-armed creature that had led the charge.

It was over faster than he'd expected, but it had only been a first charge. The brief moments the remaining majority of necrophages took to process what had just happened, the two witchers for their part spent on catching their breath and sharing a meaningful look. The cat indicated her nose and winked at him. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her. She wanted him to use his nose? In a dank place so ripe with death and decay? He couldn't help the frown that formed on his face, but she merely grinned and as she readied her long, deadly daggers for the coming onslaught she whispered: “Hear my moves, smell my state, sense my intentions.”

Shit, he'd never really worked in a duo with someone he didn't know well before. He and Geralt had taken jobs together once in a while, but they knew each other better than they each knew themselves and could predict each other's moves almost without trying. They were brothers in all but blood. But this woman? He knew too little about her. And she relied far more on scent than he had ever cared to.

He tentatively sniffed the air and did his best to ignore the vile stench permeating the halls. Instead he focused on the scents in his immediate surroundings, easily identifying the witcheress' now familiar combination of leather, foliage and stress with a light tinge of fear. The fear was less prominent at the moment than he'd expected, but instead there was a scent it took him a little while to identify as aggression. So that's what she'd meant. Not too shabby an idea, he had to give her that, thought he suspected he'd need a bit of practice before he would dare rely fully on that method. Eyes and ears for him, primarily, this was not a situation for weird experiments.

There was no more time to think. A graveir led the next charge of ghouls, and before they had even gotten fully into the fighting the other two graveirs and one of the cemetaurs joined the fray. He met them head on with a strong surge of Aard to confuse their ranks. His decision to stick mostly to what his eyes and ears could tell him had been the right one. Soon enough the air around them was thick with the stench of blood and gore, and not all of the blood was ghoulish.

He couldn't keep track of the cat's movements all of the time – though not for lack of trying – but it seemed, when he lost of track of her, she kept track of him. A couple of times it was obvious she'd lost track of him, as well. He hoped they wouldn't lose track of each other at the same time – that could end badly. When things got a bit too crowded, he would temporarily incapacitate a few of their attackers with Aard, or split them up, when they were becoming a bit too coordinated in their efforts. He was puzzled to note that the cat never used any signs at all. Not using Igni made sense – too great a risk of setting each other on fire – but he used Aard and Quen quite often himself.

As they dispatched more and more of the necrophages – would the damn critters not stop coming? – they even managed to settle into a routine of sorts. He would feint high and twist away, leaving an opponent wide open for the cat coming in low going for a hamstring or a femoral artery, and in the meantime she'd have left behind an attacker, kneeling or doubled over, ready for Eskel's sword to part the head from the body, or otherwise put an end to its foul-smelling life.

It was going rather well. That was, until the graveirs and cemetaurs really threw themselves fully into it. They dispatched two graveirs and a cemetaur with some difficulty, but then a lucky hit from a cemetaur sent his ally flying across the floor and out of his line of sight. He heard her land with a painful sounding “hng”. Fuck. Dancing with two cemetaurs on his own wasn't his idea of a good time at his current level of fatigue. He tried to shuffle in the direction he'd last seen the woman, but the cemetaurs were working in surprising coordination to not let him join up with her again. They soon had him on the defensive, parrying and blocking to the best of his ability without really finding an opening to counter any of their attacks, and he was too exhausted to use another sign again just yet.

Relief flooded through him, when he heard a frustrated grunt some yards away. At least she was alive still. And angry, too, by the sound of it. He was tiring rapidly, though, and he had to change up the game soon or he might just as well keel over right now. Sniffing the air, he tried to get a reading on the cat. Aggression was on the air, but also outright rage that definitely didn't come from the necrophages. Yeah, she was still fighting. He decided to take a chance. The moment he smelled elation and relief from the witcheress he turned fully towards one of the cemetaurs and went ferociously on the offence, accepting that the other one would probably get a few good hits in on his back. Hoping his brigandine would take the brunt of it, he did try to dodge the slashing claws, but they connected all the same.

He downed the one cemetaur, but pulling his sword from its torso took a few moments too long. As he turned back towards the remaining foe, it was clear that he would in no way be quick enough to parry the slashing claws aimed straight for his abdomen. He smelled a strong whiff of intense fear, and then the hulking brute faltered in mid-swing with a perplexed look on its grotesque face. Uncomprehending it fell face first to the floor at his feet. On its back sat the cat, twin daggers plunged deep into the cemetaur; one in its broad back, another in its neck.

Silence fell as he stared at the witcheress, who stared right back at him. The scent of fear dissipated quickly. Had she been afraid for his safety? For him? That seemed more than a little odd, but he could find no other explanation, and the uncertainty in her eyes told him she knew he'd been able to smell it. There was no point confronting her with it, though, so he remained silent, just taking in the sight of her instead.

She was breathing heavily and blood was streaming down her face from a split eyebrow, making her look about as ferocious as the cemetaur she'd just replaced in his line of sight. He must have made a face, because she shrugged and got up. “Looks worse than it is.”

Such injuries weren't unfamiliar and without thinking much about it, he closed the space between them in two strides and carefully wiped the blood off to better assess how bad it was. It would keep bleeding for some time – head wounds always did – but it wasn't any worse than a witcher's regeneration should be able to handle. Though she flinched at his first approach, she recognized his action for what it was and sent him a wan smile. They stared at each other in silence, while their breathing slowly returned to normal. Her eyes were stormy and more alive than he'd seen them before. It should probably disturb him, but it didn't. Nor did it surprise him. It didn't surprise him either that he felt his body responding to her nearness after the adrenaline rush of the fight.

What did surprise him was her words.

“So,” she sniffed lightly and winked at him “how about a quick fuck to get it out of our systems before we move on?”

“What, here? Now?” The stench of death hadn't exactly lessened now that the necrophages lay dead at their feet. And she was thinking about sex. The woman wasn't entirely sane. Of course she wouldn't be, he reminded himself: cat.

She shrugged. “Why not? We're both horny and here's where we are.”

He stared at her not knowing what to say. Both of them were covered in grime and gore, and neither of them made an appealing sight. She held up a hand, halting his mind's frantic search for an appropriate response.

“Hey, it's fine. It was just a suggestion.” She turned away, picked up the sword she'd dropped, when she went flying earlier, and began searching through the scattered remains of their fallen foes, picking up scraps and parts here and there.

Eskel joined in, picking out the ingredients he was running low on and eventually just looking around, taking in the room, now that there weren't any immediate threats to distract them. It seemed the cat had had the same idea, she walked along the line of sarcophagi along the left wall and looked curiously at their stone lids. Eskel turned his attention to the walls instead. Any paint there had faded and flaked, but the reliefs were visible. He couldn't tell their origin, though, maybe dwarven. Definitely really, really old. As far as he could tell they depicted old battles, though he recognized none of the few heraldic symbols he could make out.

“Hey, wolf!” Her voice rang across the mausoleum. She was standing on the uppermost step of the dais with the biggest sarcophagus. Dust rose from the lid as she brushed a hand across it and leaned over to get a better look. “You familiar with this language?”

He walked towards her end of the room, but as he neared her, the heady scent of arousal mixed with the coppery smell of fresh wounds hit his nose again. She was still horny – and frustrated as far as he could tell. She'd probably taken his hesitation as rejection, and now he was ogling her ass again. He studied the rest of her body language. No, her awkward posture, leaning over the lid, while putting her legs and ass on an appreciable display, seemed to be unconscious. She definitely wasn't doing this on purpose to give him an eyeful. He did appreciate the one he got nonetheless, even if it included caked blood and gore clinging to curves that could make a man harden at the mere sight. This man, anyway. The implications of that he stubbornly ignored as he approached her.

He moved closer and made sure she heard his footsteps.

“This writing. I've never seen anything like it.” She didn't take her eyes from the sarcophagus lid, just twisted her neck to study the writing along the edges. “Come, take a look. Tell me what you think.” She waved a hand without looking at him, indicating he step up beside her.

Eskel threw caution to the wind and stepped up behind her instead. She stiffened and straightened up.

“I think,” he started, “that I've changed my mind.” He let the effects of her heady scent wash over him and stopped holding back his own body's response to it.

Standing a step below her, he leaned in and whispered in her left ear, careful not to touch her just yet. “Is that offer still open?”

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder for a moment. Her gaze was intense; considering. Then she licked his upper lip, where his scars pulled at it, and he was glad he successfully fought the urge to pull back. “You bet,” she whispered in what he could best describe as a smug tone.

Leaning into her, then, arms on either side, his hands next to hers on the lid of the ancient tomb, he inhaled her scent deeply. She tilted her head to the right allowing him access to her neck and he wasted no time nuzzling her skin there. He quickly found the spot, where the scent of her arousal was strongest and licked it gently, tracing his tongue all the way along the edge of her burn scars to her disfigured ear. She had expressed an appreciation for scars, so he would work with hers. It paid off. She shuddered and pushed back against him with a groan. He repeated the action and was rewarded with another breathy exclamation that vaguely resembled “oh fuck”. Yeah, he could definitely work with this.

Moving his hands to her hips he stilled her movements and began untying the laces of her trousers. She reached a hand back and tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his face to her neck, not that he had planned on stopping what he was doing to her, now lightly nipping at her strangely rough-textured scar tissue. The effect was much too enjoyable to give up just yet, especially the little involuntary movements her hips were making, grinding into him and making it difficult for him to focus. His trousers were already uncomfortably tight, but he'd have a little fun with her before indulging that particular demand of hers.

Loosening her trousers and pushing her small-clothes out of the way, he found her as ready as his nose had told him she'd be. Her grip on his hair loosened and she placed her hand back on the sarcophagus in front of her to steady herself. She was far more responsive to his touch than he had expected, but then this **had** been her idea in the first place. The little gasps and half-strangled moans she let out sent shivers down his spine and straight to his balls. There was no way he'd be able to hold back for long. Thankfully he didn't have to. He held her steady against the dusty granite of the tomb as her climax washed over her and she temporarily lost her balance and sagged against him. Eskel couldn't deny a considerable feeling of smugness as he waited for her to catch her breath.

It didn't take her long to recover. Anything else would have surprised him, really, considering how much restraint she showed – barely a sound had he heard from her so far. Neither of them needed to get out of any clothing at all, and by the time she started grinding back against him, he was ready to move things forward. She slid her trousers down and glanced at him over her shoulder with a hungry look that excited him more than he would have expected.

“Waiting for a formal invitation, wolf?” An indication of a playful smile danced at the corner of her eye.

He grinned at her. “Wouldn't want to tire you out.”

“Is that a challenge?” The playfulness coloured her breathy voice.

“What if it is?” He shot back.

“Give it your best shot.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

It felt every bit as good as the first time, but this time he was free to move. And so he did. Adrenaline from the battle was still rushing in their blood, and after only a few thrusts they had settled on a punishing rhythm. Eskel was certain he'd be leaving bruises on her hips, but she didn't seem to care. Witcher's constitution would handle it easily.

Having a partner able to match his strength and vigour was exhilarating, and from the way she moved to meet his thrusts, it was obvious she appreciated it as well. They lost themselves to their urges and fucked until they both sagged against the cold stone in the darkness. As they put their clothing to rights again, they shared the relieved and slightly manic laughter of trespassers who'd gotten away with something they shouldn't have.


	21. Interlude 10

“You fucking what?!” Lambert's incredulous outburst was rather loud and Eskel glanced over at Geralt to see if he'd woken up again. Nope. Sod was sleeping soundly; or at least appearing to. “Were you completely out of your fucking mind?!”

“Obviously. I blame blood loss.” Eskel dead-panned.

“Bullshit.” Lambert sneered. “You were doing fine. You just said as much.”

“Yeah. All right. But that ass. I'm telling you. Worth the risk.”

Lambert stared at him, and Eskel felt a twinge of pride at having for once rendered the gnat speechless.

It didn't last as long as he'd hoped.

“I can't believe I never got you drunk enough to tell us such things before.”

“Fuck off, Lambert. There's a reason I usually don't tell **you** these things.”

“A succubus, fisstech and fucking a witcheress in an old tomb. I was really wrong about you.”

Eskel sighed. “Leave it alone, Lambert.”

The younger witcher paused briefly, and when he continued his tone was uncharacteristically neutral instead of his usual sneer. “Why didn't you ever mention this?”

The question was fair enough, he supposed, but Eskel just shrugged. “Not much point to it.”

“Not much point? Eskel, not even twenty years ago, at least two people here were sort of considering witcher mutations for Ciri! And you'd actually met one! A female witcher!”

“Why do you think, I was so grateful to Triss for putting an end to such ideas?”

“But there's a female witcher! Out there! A live one! Where d'you think she might be?”

“Nowhere, probably.”

“Why? What's that supposed to mean?”

“She probably isn't around anymore.” It was as simple as that, really. He wanted to be wrong, but with what he had managed to learn about the strange witcheress in the little time they'd spent together there was no mistaking what was clearly a death wish. He wasn't quite sure why she was still alive, when he'd met her. She sure hadn't seemed too thrilled about it herself, and he had no reason to think she had stuck around for another 20 years. Even if he did rather hope she had; she was a better person than she gave herself credit for. Or at least that was the impression he got.

He sighed. He figured he might as well just finish the damned story.


	22. Chapter 11

After their impromptu fuck they decided to head back up to their camp. They were exhausted and all their excess energy had without a doubt been burned thoroughly off. His left arm ached, his right side stung and his head was pounding, and now that the hormonal impulses of battle and lust had died down he was really feeling it. He definitely wasn't quite back in full health just yet, but he was getting there at a sure pace, thanks to the witcheress, who was currently walking beside him, injured and still bleeding but with an expression most befitting a cat who ate a canary. An insane cat with a face as mangled as his own, whose current disturbing look of contentment was owed in no small part to his decision to throw caution to the wind and go along with her outrageous suggestion.

Him. The cautious and rule-abiding witcher who never did anything wild or out of the ordinary. He could hardly believe it himself. The isolation -being just the two of them so far removed from the rest of the world – was allowing him to forget all the potential ramifications. Sooner or later they would be leaving this place, and they would both have to face reality. Whatever that would entail between them. If anything.

The feeling of eyes on him brought him out of his ruminations and he looked to his right, where the cat walked beside him. She was, indeed, studying him, looking every bit as pensive as he felt.

“What?” It came out far more defensive than he'd intended and she raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“You look terribly morose for someone who just had such an enjoyable fuck. What's the matter?”

Well, that was new. She hadn't taken that kind of interest in his thoughts before; only in his physical well-being. And she hadn't even commented on his attitude. He met her eyes, searching for a clue as to what had made her ask such a question. Probably just the decision she made a few days earlier. Probably. When he looked away to see where he was putting his feet, he was still none the wiser, so he just shrugged in response.

“See, that's what I mean.” Unexpectedly, she pressed on. “You usually talk to me. I'm the one who clams up, whereas you've been trying to get me to talk ever since you woke up. And you've even had a considerable amount of success with your efforts, too. So what's the matter?”

“Huh, point taken,” he conceded.

“And...?” she prompted.

“Hard to explain.”

“Try me. I'm not exactly unfamiliar with tough shit.”

“I didn't mean hard for you to understand. I meant it's hard for me to explain. I'm not sure I even know the answer to your question.”

The cat shrugged then. “Well, bad weather wasn't over this morning and it didn't smell like it will be for several more days. You've time to think about it.”

Eskel nodded and they walked on in silence. Damn, the way out felt longer than the way into this ancient structure. Quite the difference the adrenaline could make in your perceptions. If it wasn't for his senses telling him they had been in the present hallway before, he would be convinced they were lost. Finally, when he was even beginning to doubt those excellent senses of his, they reached the large central stairwell.

They left no burning sconces behind them. It was out of habit more than anything else that they both sought to avoid announcing their presence. Not that there'd be anything around the stairwell to whom they hadn't already done so, but just in case. You never knew. He grabbed one of the torches and carried it with him up the stairs. Once again he was impressed with the sheer size of the place. He wondered if Geralt had ever seen anything like it. His oldest friend had told him of some of the elven ruins he'd come across now and then.

“Hey, you coming?” The cat called from the next staircase. She had already put out the torches on the stretch between them, and he was falling behind. He tried to shake off his badly timed pensiveness and continued up the stairs.

“Yeah, sorry.” He really had to liven up a bit.

“No worries, wolf, you're preoccupied, I get it. I just didn't want to leave you down here.” She put out another sconce and continued up, her back to him. Interesting. She'd brought a torch to light them, but she put them out using Aard. Odd preference.

“Yeah, yeah, didn't save my ass only to see it go to waste elsewhere, right?”

“Exactly. What is it about that that you find so hard to believe?”

He snorted. “Not often anyone finds a witcher's ass worth saving.”

“Hah! Now that's the truth.” She voiced the shared bitter experience of most – if not all – witchers.

Eskel decided now was his chance to kill two birds with one stone. Distract himself from his own musings and finally confront her now that she seemed to be in a good mood – even if he wasn't.

“Yeah, witchers gotta look out for each other,” he answered. “I have to admit, though, I never expected to owe the continued existence of this sorry hide to a cat.”

There it was. The moment he said it, she stiffened and turned to face him in a flash, weapons drawn. He noted she'd gone for the daggers rather than the sword. Preferences. He kept his movements perfectly calm and continued up the stairs. Six steps below her he stopped, awaiting her initiative, hoping she wouldn't decide to try to end his life simply for having figured her out.

“How long have you known?” The familiar scent of her fear was back. It came rolling off of her in waves.

“Known for sure? Only since seeing you fight – and kill,” he added as an afterthought. “Had a strong suspicion? Hmmm, since about that time you came back from getting the wyvern meat.”

Her eyes widened. “That long? And you haven't killed me. Why?”

“You haven't given me a reason to.” He held her gaze.

The long daggers, gleaming in the torch light, shook slightly as she lowered them. “For many, simply being a witcher of the Cat School is reason enough. And you being a wolf... that would be plenty justification for most people, considering our schools' history.”

“Well, not for me, it isn't,” he retorted.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed, for a long time before she spoke again. “You're a better person than me, then.” She looked away.

“ **You** would judge a person for their origins?” He knew he sounded surprised. He was.

“No,” her voice had taken on the flat quality he'd heard before, “but I **would** and do judge a witcher for being from the Cat School.” She sheathed her weapons, and when she looked at him again she didn't quite meet his eyes. “What will you do now?”

“Do? Same as I've done so far, I guess. Wait out the snows. Get better – my injuries are still bothering me.” He briefly debated whether or not it would be wise adding the last remark. Briefly. “And continue to enjoy the company.”

He could tell she saw the smile he sent her, but she didn't return it. A shake of her head and the words she'd spoken before was all he got. “I don't understand you, wolf.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I mean it, too.” She turned back up the stairs and he followed. Her fear had diminished, but she was still tense as a drawn bowstring.

“Yeah well, so did I,” he called after her. She didn't answer him, just kept slogging upwards.

Standing by the next sconce she put it out and cast him a thoughtful, sidelong glance. “Meant what?”

“What I said about enjoying the company.” He shrugged helplessly. “I like you. Whether or not you understand it.”

Again she looked down. “You really shouldn't.” For fuck's sake, not this again. They'd been over this.

“Why not? You saved my life. I'm allowed to appreciate and like you for that, right?”

“Well, sure, but I'm a-”

“Cat. Yeah.” He interrupted her. “And I don't care.”

“That's not what I was going to say,” she muttered quietly.

“No? Well, what were you going to say, then? Witcher? Loner? Not a people person? Prone to brooding? Join the fucking club, sunshine. Our profession isn't exactly conducive to well-adjusted individuals.”

She didn't respond to his admonishment. Just stood silently and waited for him to reach her side. Her jaw clenched and unclenched in a steady rhythm. When he got to her she turned and fell into step beside him. It relieved him that she wasn't shutting him out completely, but he still wasn't sure where to go from here.

“Murderer.”

“Pardon?” He wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

“Murderer. That's what I was going to say.”

Eskel sighed. This was an uphill battle, and was clearly going to be so for a while, but he did have an idea. “Ever heard of the Butcher of Blaviken?”

“Some. I usually don't travel that far West, but yeah, rumours did reach me.”

“Heard of the White Wolf?”

She snorted indignantly, first sign of actual spark in her since he kicked this hornet's nest. “Of course, I have. Who hasn't?”

“Are you aware that they're one and the same?”

A sharp intake of breath. A slow exhale. “You're shitting me.”

“No. Geralt and I grew up together, went through our Trials together. He's a damn good Witcher, but he also makes a fucking pig's ear of things at times.”

“Shit. I always thought the Butcher of Blaviken was one of ours.”

“No. The rest of us can fuck up just the same.”

The cat snorted derisively. “That's putting it mildly. I have to point out, though...” she paused and sighed dejectedly. “For you, a wolf, it was a fuck-up because a lot of people died in the middle of a market place. Deaths that might've been prevented. For one of ours the fuck-up would have consisted in leaving witnesses.”

“And for you?” He prodded.

“I don't recall saying I left any witnesses either.” She countered glumly.

“That was different. At least the way you told it.” He felt fairly certain she had told him the truth about that village, but if there had been others... he had no idea what to expect from her.

She shrugged and kept her gaze lowered as they continued their long climb. “I... have on occasion had to think in those terms. Jobs I was given by our leaders. Probably to test me, I guess. They did plenty of that,” she winced at the mention. “I haven't taken such contracts, when I had the option not to. On my own, I take only real witcher's work.”

The way she emphasized 'real' put Eskel at ease. No, he was fairly certain he hadn't misjudged her.

“Whenever I'm able,” she added so quietly he almost missed it.

“Able?”

“Yeah, I... sometimes I...” she faltered and shook her head. “Never mind.”

He let it go. He already felt foolish for having put off the confrontation about her school for so long, and now it had turned out far easier and a lot less confrontational than he'd feared. The cat had fallen silent and he had nothing further to say at the moment, letting the dry crunch of their footsteps on the old dusty stairs echo in the darkness around them and accompany the rest of their climb.

They reached the top of the stairs and headed towards the exit. “So,” the witcheress started again, “I can't help but notice. You used an example with the White Wolf rather than yourself. Is it safe to assume that your own most egregious mistake is somehow related to the scars you don't talk about?”

He chuckled, not bothering to hide the pain the memories brought back. “Anyone ever tell you, you're too clever for your own good, cat?”

“Been telling myself that since before I turned ten. I think. Hasn't helped much. Sure didn't prevent me from ending up where I am now,” she groused.

“Probably not much you could have done differently. Few of us were ever given a choice.”

“I was. I just wasn't clever enough to say no.” Well, that was interesting. Self-reproach was apparently the one thing he could constantly count on with this woman.

He promised himself he'd return to that point later. For now, though, he wanted to stay focused on the present rather than an obviously painful past. “You lament being a witcher? I wouldn't hold it against you. Many of us don't seem to be content with that life. I don't mind it too much myself, but I can see why others might.”

She was quiet for a while before she answered hesitantly. “I don't actually know. It's not...” she trailed off with a sigh. “I guess it's not too bad. I just can't- There are things I- for me there's more to it than just being a witcher. And- and there are things that I can't fix. That can't **be** fixed, I don't think.”

“What are you on about?”

“I... I'd rather not say. Yet. I think.” She paused, her voice taking on that bleak hopelessness again. “Can't keep running. It's gonna catch up sooner or later. Kinda just hoping I'll get to choose the place.”

Eskel had no idea what to say to that. It only raised more questions, and she was already giving him far more than he had expected; far more than he'd even dared hope for.

“This, uhhh, whatever it is, the reason you keep to yourself?”

She nodded, but said nothing. Her face a grim mask of tired acceptance.

“To make sure no one gets in the way?”

Another nod.

“Not considered enlisting aid?”

“Pointless.”

No further explanation seemed to be forthcoming. They could see the dim light from their camp-fire at the end of the hallway. Silence reigned for the remainder of their walk, and when they reached their camp their relief at being able to just fall back on the routines they'd established over the past several days was palpable.

A pretense of normalcy seemed to be the way to go, though, so that's what he would try. “Hey, when you get out of that armour of yours, lemme have a look at your back.”

She looked up at him, surprise evident in her eyes.

“What? You didn't think I saw?”

“We were kinda busy with other things, as I recall,” she sniffed in his direction. He couldn't tell whether she was being serious or drily humourous. The sombre mood after their strange conversation still permeated the air between them.

“Hey, it's fine if you don't want me to take a look at it.” He shrugged to emphasise that he wouldn't make a big deal out of it. “Just thought I'd make the offer.” He turned away, sat down and saw about getting the worst of the gore out of his clothes. He might not mind the smell of blood much, but the stench of decay that hung around necrophages always made his stomach churn. He wasted no time getting out of his brigandine and shirt.

He didn't look at the cat, but he listened intently to what she was doing. The creak of her leathers, the rustle of clothes, the hiss of metal as she sat down to clean her daggers.

“Wolf?”

“Yeah?” He looked at her. She sat on her bedroll, indeed cleaning her daggers, naked from the waist up, back partially turned towards the fire. Half-dried bloody trails had run down her back inside her clothes, fresh blood still oozed slowly from the injury just below her neck.

“If the offer's still open, I'd like to take it.” She didn't so much as look at him. An educated guess would explain it with embarrassment; a feeling he'd gotten to know rather well the first couple of days after he woke up in her care. He grinned, he just couldn't help himself. This was familiar turf for both of them. Sort of, anyway.

“Glad I'm not the only one, who's awkward about asking a stranger for help.” Shit, he said that out loud. He hadn't meant to.

The cat's laughter was low and soft, though with a slightly manic edge to it. “Yeah. I assumed I knew more or less how you'd be feeling, so I tried to not put you on the spot too much. I'm glad. This is...” she visibly suppressed a shudder. “I'm not sure awkward quite covers it.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He got up and went to sit down behind her. That wound definitely needed some attention. It should have stopped bleeding on its own by now. She'd laid out the necessary remedies – needle, thread and spirits. Bandages wouldn't be relevant in that location.

She was polishing the blade of one of her silver daggers, when he gently prodded at the wound. Her meditative rhythm hardly even faltered. More blood poured out of the cut. It started by her right shoulder, at the crook of her neck and dragged back and diagonally down her back. It was relatively short, stopping not much below where the neckline of her armour would be, but it was deep. Very deep. Much deeper than he'd first thought, or he'd have insisted they do something about it sooner.

“I'm gonna need to clean it out.”

“I know. Do what's necessary,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Vodka's right beside you.”

Eskel carefully parted the edges of the wound to get a proper look at it.

“Shit, cat, this is bad.”

She shrugged, though only with her left shoulder.

“Seriously. I can see the vertebra, where it crosses your spine. Why didn't you say something sooner? How the fuck did this happen?”

“Remember when one of them managed to chuck me 'cross the room?”

“Yeah. Heard more than saw, to be honest. Vodka incoming.”

She nodded and then hissed as the customary, improvised disinfectant dribbled into the wound.

“The fuck did you land on?” He hadn't even finished his question, when she held out her left hand and made a grabby motion with her fingers.

“It's not from the landing. This is from the claw that sent me flying. Fucker got a hold of my shoulder, and it's claw got under my skin, and when that broke there was still my armour. Hence the lovely somersault that you missed.” He placed the vodka bottle in her waiting hand and she wasted no time downing several hearty gulps.

“Damn. And there I was being all concerned about your eyebrow.” He threaded the needle and got to work.

“Yeah, that was from the landing, all right.” Two more mouthfuls went down.

“And a bit more immediately visible.”

“Hey, at least one of us is looking out for my beautiful face. Should've had you around all those years ago.” She took a few more swigs, and he was beginning to feel slightly left out, though his own inebriation should probably be postponed until after he was done.

“Yeah, there are certain benefits to having someone to patch you up. You mean to get drunk?”

“Yes. Unless you've got something you need me to patch up first.”

“Nah, I'll be fine. Just minor scratches. My back got a few blows that connected, but they don't feel too bad. Armour took the brunt of it.”

“Good.” She took another swig. “Can't believe we've been holed up for so long without getting drunk yet.”

“Try to relax. You're pulling at the wound every time you tense your right shoulder.”

“Sorry. Gimme a moment.” She tilted her head back and drained the remainder of the vodka. “There. Keep going. I'll behave now.”

He had to laugh at that. “You? Behave? I'm not convinced that's possible. Especially not after you just downed that much booze.” He did get back to work on stitching her harrowed skin together, nonetheless.

“No, you're right, wolf, it probably isn't.” She sighed wistfully. “Better not get too drunk. With you around, I'll want to actually remember my misbehaviour.”

She seemed to respond mostly well to the friendly teasing. Latching on to that seemed like a good idea, even if she didn't quite return the good-natured banter. “Wanting to remember is a bad thing now?”

“There are things I want to remember. Like you for instance. And there are things I want to forget. Can't do both at the same time.”

“I know the feeling. After...” he trailed off, but then decided to go on. If she could, so could he: “After I got my face slashed to bits I frequently drank to forget that. And not just that – people's reactions, too. Still do, sometimes. Work kinda makes it a bad idea to do too often, though.”

“Mm hm. Old pain, huh?”

“Yeah. It's, hmm, 'bout twenty years ago now. Well, actually, that story starts twenty years before that. I'd returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter, before everyone even got there, we had company...” Again he trailed off, this time it was because he noticed some old scars on her back. Faint, very faint, straight scars, long since healed. He could only see them now, because her back was fully lit by the camp-fire They definitely weren't from a monster, they were from some kind of lashing or caning. Maybe he'd ask her about it later. They were a lot older than any of the other scars he could see.

“Hey, wolf?” Shit, she had noticed.

He pulled his focus back on sewing up her wound. He was nearly done now anyway. “Yeah?”

“You're hesitating...” She had definitely noticed.

Might as well be up front. “Not because of that. I just noticed those old scars from some kind of lashing you have here. Got distracted.” He let his fingertips trace lightly along some of the faint lines. There was no visible reaction from the cat.

Her dry amusement returned. “You seem to like scars rather a lot more, when they're not your own, hm?”

He stilled. He hadn't really considered that aspect. Did he? Did he like scars at all? The exact answer to that question eluded him, but at the same time he had to admit that the notion might not be so foreign after all. Without thinking he let his hand roam over her shoulder and glide over the burn scars there. What he thought of them he wasn't entirely sure of, but the small shiver that ran through the woman in front of him was unmistakable and definitely to his liking.

She interrupted his musings, her voice slightly thick. “Uhm anyway, you said before that you didn't want to talk about this. You sure you're not gonna regret telling me?”

“You gonna make me regret it?” He teased, but that was lost on her, it seemed.

“I... uhh, I'll try not to?” Her somewhat distracted tone told her he hadn't been the only affected by his accidental reminder of their previous activities. Probably the reason she'd missed his teasing.

“Good enough for me. It's not terribly interesting anyway.” He tried to downplay it off, for whose sake he couldn't say, but the witcheress didn't even acknowledge the attempt. Just waited. “I'd made the mistake of invoking the Law of Surprise, 'cause I couldn't think of anything else to ask for. Got a child out of it, but it was a girl, so I never went back to take her with me. No point to it, I thought.”

“Yeah, I'll have to agree with you there. I'd have done the same.” That surprised him, but before he could ask, she continued: “Of course I wouldn't have invoked the Law of Surprise in the first place, so I guess that's moot. Don't like surprises.”

He was just about done with the stitches. He really hoped he had gotten the wound properly disinfected. As witchers they wouldn't have to worry about diseases, but an infected, pus-filled wound was still a risk. This close to her spine any kind of poisoning would be risky, and he made sure the injury was sewn up nice and tight. He was fairly pleased with it, certain that nothing would get into the wound.

Then he returned to the story. “Apparently, Fate disagreed with my choice. So by the time this girl was a woman about twenty years of age she showed up at Kaer Morhen running from her younger brother and his mage-advisor.”

“Shit. She was nobility?”

“A princess, even. And not only that. She was also born under the Black Sun.”

The cat sucked in a hissing breath. “The curse...”

“Yeah. And she was definitely touched. Somehow. It was impossible to use magic around her. Spoke to dogs and wolves, too – I still wonder whether being the Child Surprise of a wolf witcher might have had anything to do with that. The mage-advisor wasn't really so much advising the brother as she was there to get samples from the girl, or even bring her in for experiments.”

The cat tensed so suddenly, he had to grab her shoulders in order to prevent her from tearing open her stitches. He only barely caught her in time. The strong scent of rage was unmistakable. “Hey, hey, relax.” She wriggled a bit, but didn't really struggle, took a few deep breaths and calmed herself.

“Sorry.” A few more deep breaths. “Did I ruin your handiwork?”

“No, you're fine. I managed to prevent any damage.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Tell me you didn't hand the girl over. I really don't like magicians and their experiments.” Her speech was slightly slurred. Vodka was definitely having an effect.

“That the reason you don't use your signs all that much?” He asked while he got up and went to his own pack for supplies of the alcoholic kind.

“Part of it, yes. But what happened?”

Armed with his own bottle and one to spare he went back to her and sat down in the same spot. She turned around, so they were sitting side by side – mostly facing the fire, partially each other. She reached for another bottle in her pack. It smelled like some kind of brandy, when she opened it, and he was relieved to note she didn't attack it with the same fervour the vodka had received.

“Well?” She prompted, though her tone was far from pushy.

“We tried to negotiate a peaceful solution. We couldn't take the girl in, so we tried to get the siblings to agree on some kind of working relationship. It started out well enough, but neither the girl, nor her brother and his mage-advisor had been entirely forthcoming nor honest in the negotiations. I suppose we might've known.”

The cat snorted softly at the admission.

“So things broke down badly, and the girl's madness took over and she lashed out. I was in the way. She claimed she'd been frightened and had panicked. She also used the madness-excuse. Some of it had to be bullshit – plain as day, but which part it was... who can say?”

He shook his head, lamenting how awfully wrong things had gone.

“I was close to bleeding out, while Geralt finally managed to calm things down and get them all to agree to some sort of pseudo-solution.” He finished the much abbreviated version of the tale by taking a few gulps of the strong spirit.

The woman by his side waited silently for any further developments.

“We **were** bound by Fate. No matter how much I wanted it to not be the case. She said she could feel where I was, whenever she thought of me. It was mutual. I did everything I could to never think of her. I didn't want any part of it.”

“You still feel her?”

“No. She's dead. Died young. Like all the others born under the Black Sun. Even if I didn't think of her, she was still there. When she died, it was like there was suddenly a hole in my mind. A little ball of nothing at the edge of my consciousness.”

“Weird.” Her tone made him look. He was afraid he'd get the pathetic kind of useless sympathy, but what he saw was recognition. Or at least, that's what he thought it was, before she schooled her features and looked politely puzzled instead. “How long did it last? After her death, I mean?”

“Still there.” As were his regrets about not having done more. Done something else. Anything.

“Damn. Makes me glad I never invoked any surprises.”

“Yeah, you haven't missed out on anything glorious, I can tell you that. I've had all the taste of Fate I've ever wanted.” He was beginning to sound like Lambert's expert complaining. Only more morose. He shook his head, trying to clear the regrets cluttering his mind.

“I dunno,” the cat mused. “Whatever caused your horse to dump you in my lap, sure has my gratitude.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “You can't be that drunk already.”

“I'm not.” She almost shrugged, but winced instead and thought better of it. “Or maybe I am. Fuck it. I don't care. I'll admit, at first I wasn't too happy to have company. I like my solitude. But I couldn't just let you die, and now you've grown on me. Besides, you're not the only one who, uhh, what was it you said...?” She eyed his torso and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Like the view? Yeah, I noticed.” Sitting on that side of him, she probably couldn't see the smile he couldn't hide. “Still don't see why.”

“You really don't?”

He shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her looking at him. She shifted her bottle to her right hand and reached for him with her left. At least she was sensible enough to not move her right arm about. She shifted closer to him – enough that their legs almost touched.

“ **I** like scars.” She gently traced a finger along the furrows in his cheek, and he closed his eyes. It felt strange.

“So you said.” The rough pad of her fingertip sent tingling sparks from his cheek and straight down his spine. He found it difficult to keep his voice even for those three words, so he kept silent. In some places he was numb, in others it felt like his skin caught fire at her touch, and in yet others it caused an odd, lingering sensation of a light tickle. Had it been like this for her as well?

“They're a testament to all the things we've been through; all the things that tried, but didn't manage, to kill us. That's why I like to keep mine sort of intact.” Her single digit was joined by the rest of her hand and continued down his throat, shoulder and arm. He opened his eyes again and took a heavy swig. Wouldn't do for her to be the only one getting drunk-ish. “And,” she added laconically, “even if I were indifferent to the scars, you'd still be a handsome man in excellent condition.”

He snorted. “That's laying it on a bit too thick.”

“You are, though. Let me ask you this: What do you see, when you look at me? Do you see my scars and appreciate them for being a part of me, or do you see past them and appreciate me in spite of them? We've already established that you like the view.”

It sounded so much like the type of question you didn't want to get wrong that he had to remind himself that she wasn't like that. “I... uhh, a bit of both, I guess? Didn't really give it much thought.”

“You did give it some, when I mentioned liking scars before. Is it so hard to imagine that someone might think of you the same way?”

He did see what she was getting at. She was making sense. “No. Well, yes, 'cause I'm not used to it. But when you put it like that, no. By far most women I meet, disagree with your assessment, though.”

She snorted. “Oh, I don't doubt that. People don't like to be reminded of the bad things in the world. Remember how I expected you to react to my scars that first night?” The accompanying laugh was bitter. “Experience is a cruel task master.”

He nodded in agreement. “I'll drink to that!” They both washed down the depressing subject with copious amounts of alcohol and fell silent.

Eskel took the chance to study her again. This time he had a view of her burns. They didn't look natural. Too localised. He surmised they were magical burns and voiced the question.

The cat nodded glumly in response. “Yeah, I really don't like magic, or at least not the fiery kind. At least I didn't lose my hearing, although it does constantly feel wrong. I can sort of still feel my ear, even though half of it's gone.” She absent-mindedly scratched at the mottled skin of her shoulder. “The skin here is mostly just odd. It took a couple of years before I regained decent feeling in it here, and it still feels almost like some nerves grew back together wrong. Cross-wise or some such. Sensation is really messy.”

“Worked rather well for you down below.”

“Yeah,” she smiled at him, an unmistakable, flirty glint in her eyes. “No one's ever thought to do that before. It was pretty intense.”

“I noticed,” he smirked at her. He really wanted to steer this in a less gloomy direction, and if raunchy was all two messed-up witchers could come up with as an alternative, then hell if he wouldn't take that. “Speaking of. Are you going to sit there and be half naked the rest of the day?”

“I probably shouldn't.”

“I'm not complaining.”

Her laughter was genuine. Nothing bitter or derisive about it for once. Eskel decided he liked that laugh rather a lot. Despite the awkwardness and tension that still resurfaced with her, whenever her origins came up, she had clearly decided to trust him enough to relax around him. Mostly anyway.

“But at some point I'll be cold again.”

The reference definitely wasn't lost on him. “Any way I can help. Let me know. I'm at your service.” A mock servile flourish and bow, made very silly by his still seated position, got her laughing again.

“Anyone ever tell you, you're really funny?”

“I'm usually not.”

“Why not?”

“Don't often have cause to be.”

She looked at him. No, she studied him, with those sharp, calculating eyes of hers. Tilted her head to one side. “You mean, you don't often bother to relax in the company of others. Not unlike myself.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, though it was less mirthful than hers had been. Her observations were pretty accurate. “Heh, I guess you'd know what that looks like. I usually only sort of relax when back in Kaer Morhen. With the others.”

“What's it like there?”

Puzzled, he met her eyes. “What it's like? What do you mean?” Her gaze flickered to and from his.

“Just that. What's it like?”

What kind of weird question was that? He'd thought it would be obvious. So he shrugged and tried to think of anything interesting to say about it. He failed. There was really only the mundane, everyday boredom to come up with. And the things they did to compensate. “There are always repairs that need to be made. The keep is crumbling, and there aren't many of us left to maintain it anymore. So we can usually pass an entire winter with that and still not be done come spring.”

“Not many... how few is that? If you don't mind me asking,” she quickly added, clearly not yet quite sure of the status of his trust.

“Vesemir, of course, he trained all of us. Geralt, Lambert, Berengar. And then there's Coen.”

“And no recruits, I take it? Just the six of you?”

He nodded. “And believe me, we're kept plenty busy trying to keep up with the ageing stones of our walls.”

“So that's what you do? All winter?”

“Only when we actually head there for the winter. This year I obviously didn't. But nah, we also train. Talk. Get drunk. Share our stories. Not necessarily in that order. Lambert will always want to brag about something, drunk or not. Geralt usually brings in the more impressive stories, but you have to drag them out of him. Getting him drunk helps, but not by much.”

“And you?”

The cat's question was better left ignored. “Vesemir will always try to find some lesson to be learned, no matter what story someone just told. He takes his responsibility very seriously.” Eskel paused, considering. “Sometimes too seriously, I think. He's all that's left of the generations before Geralt and myself. It weighs on him.”

“Is Geralt as much of an older brother-type about it as you?”

“Hm? What? What d'you mean?”

“You sound like you're taking your mentor's concerns very seriously. As if you're readying yourself to step up and take over, once the winter comes when he doesn't return.”

He chewed on that a little while. The cat waited patiently, and he noted that she'd slowed down her intake significantly. Good, she wasn't meaning to get completely shit-faced. He wasn't quite sure about her question, though.

“Honestly? I don't know. I haven't given it much thought. Time never really seems to pass in Kaer Morhen. We come back almost every year. Everything's the same. Some of us have a few more scars and a bunch of stories only some of which are even worth telling. Doesn't feel like anything ever really changes.”

“Things do change, though.”

“I know. The world changes around us. We don't change much, though.”

“You haven't mentioned Coen and Berengar again...?”

“Coen arrived only recently, from up in Poviss, I think he said. He's not originally from our school, so I don't know him all that well, yet. Seems like a really decent sort.”

“You take in outsiders?” He couldn't blame her for being incredulous.

“Of course. If they seem all right to us, why not?”

“But how can you be sure you can trust them? I mean, after... uhhh. We didn't exactly give you reason to think all that well of the rest of us.”

“We can never be completely sure,” he conceded. “But it's not like we have a bunch of kids running around there anymore. The few of us that are left can take care of ourselves. We're not putting anybody at risk, who aren't at risk every day anyway.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” She pursed her lips and stared into the camp-fire “Sounds nice, though.”

“Nice? It isn't all the time. Lambert likes to brag, like I said. And he and Berengar are a pair of bitter, angry fucks, who will never abandon a good opportunity for bitching.”

“About?”

He slowly counted up a sample of the long list of things he'd heard the pair grumble about. “The Path. Vesemir. The rest of us. Repairs. Women. Kaer Morhen. Being witchers. Repairs. The rest of us. Monsters. The weather. More repairs. Mostly about not liking their fates as witchers, though.”

She laughed at that. A warm and low chuckle. “That sounds so... so normal.”

“Normal?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I know I'm hardly a good judge of that, but it sounds normal to me. You... I dunno. It just sounds nice. Even with the bitching.” The smile directed at a distant point somewhere across the camp-fire was sad.

The thought struck him like lightning and he almost choked on a gulp of vodka. “You're envious!”

She turned her head to look at him, eyes still sad. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

That didn't make much sense to him and left him mostly puzzled. “You don't ever return for the winter? Never see your friends?”

She looked away again. “Don't really have any. I told you I never return.”

No real surprise there. He'd seen the look on her face those nights when she thought he were asleep. The question burned in his throat. Sure, she was taciturn most of the time, but she saved his life – that showed at least a modicum of principles, and when he did manage to get her talking she was good company. Heck, she was good company even when she wasn't communicating at all. Someone like her ought to have friends – at least a few. So why didn't she? He wanted to know. He wanted to ask, but the look on her face dissuaded him.

No. He'd wasted enough time. Putting off the talk of her origins too long was stupid, he shouldn't make the same mistake again.

“Really, cat. So what if you have a temper?” She shot him an odd look and he pressed on: “Witchers can handle themselves, so why don't you return?”

Her lips thinned to a line and she exhaled slowly through her nose before she continued. He was treading on dangerous ground, he knew. “There's nothing for me there. Never was. I just realised too late. Much too late.” Her fingers drummed restlessly on the bottle of brandy.

“Must have been pretty bad. Tough being the only woman?” He could well imagine the amount of attention she would've gotten. Especially before she got her spectacular scars.

“Hah! You'd think that, wouldn't you?” Her derisive laughter was bleak accompanied only by the ticking of her nails on the glass. “So would I. When I arrived there I was plenty old enough to know what to expect. But I was wrong. I wasn't the only woman. Or maybe I was – the others were just girls, really. Generally everybody behaved themselves. Mostly, anyway. Nothing I couldn't handle.”

“What then?”

“The bad shit started after my Trial. And it was only after I survived it that I realised the enormity of that.” Her fingers stilled and she grasped the bottle tight. Eskel could see her knuckles going white.

“Well, the odds **are** terrible. Even for boys. Naturally a female survivor would be a bit of a novelty.”

“I know. And they had conveniently neglected to tell me that no girls nor women had survived before me.”

She got up, grabbed her cloak, gathered it around her and stepped around the fire towards the exit. Coming to a halt just inside the opening, she stared out into the darkness. Eskel had no idea whether he ought to follow her or let her keep her distance. He saw her take several more swigs from the bottle and made a decision.

Walking up behind her making sure to stay out of her personal space, he regretted not having grabbed some cover of his own. Half-naked this far from the fire wouldn't do for long. He was about to say something, when the cat beat him to it in that awful dead tone he'd come to hate.

“You asked about my burn scar. After my Trial they suddenly got a lot more interested in me, wanting to find out how I could have survived it, and presumably how others might survive it as well. I...” she shuddered. “I wasn't always very cooperative with their experiments.”

“And by that I assume you mean you were never cooperative and always fought like a hellcat?” He stepped around her to get a look at her face, but she kept her eyes downcast, and there were no facial expressions of note. His attempt at humour clearly couldn't outweigh the old remembered pain.

“Well, at first I did actually cooperate, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” He could hear a tinge of embarrassment colour her voice. “They'd given me a place to stay, if not a home. I felt I owed it to them to let them do what they wanted.”

“You didn't,” he said, probably a bit more forcefully than necessary. He had a hard time understanding how she managed to be so calm about it. Mages and their experiements weren't known for being pleasant nor considerate. He thought once more of that Glevissig-bitch. No, definitely not at all pleasant.

“Besides there were other... ah, never mind.” She looked away, swallowed and shuddered again. Maybe not so calm after all. “When things took a turn for the worse, I consistently refused to cooperate. It honestly didn't help much, and this...” she indicated her left shoulder and ear, “is the result of a sustained use of Igni at close range.”

“What? To get you to cooperate?”

A brief nod answered his question.

“That's stupid. Why not use Axii?”

“Why take three days to kill an alp? Maybe I'd kicked him somewhere painful?”

Her retort surprised him, though it probably shouldn't have. He would be the first to admit that her account of her actions had worried him, but she had been out for revenge. This was different. This wasn't in any way remotely justified. It would be useless to tell her that, however, by now he knew enough about how she rationalised things.

“Bloody hell, cat. What did you do after?”

“Left as soon as I recovered. Never returned. Last straw and all that. Left my medallion behind, too. You've probably wondered where it is.”

He nodded. “Can't really blame you for that. I probably would've done the same.”

“Been on my own ever since. Not that I wasn't mostly on my own before then.”

“Ever since,” he repeated. “How long is that?”

Silence. Then another sigh. “I try not to think about it too much, and the years kinda blend. I don't really keep track anym-”

“Hey, I'm not asking for specifics. It's not important.” He reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze. She flinched at his touch but quickly relaxed again.

She cleared her throat shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other. “It was a couple of years after this.” She wriggled a hand out of the cloak she held close around her and indicated her face. “That much I'm certain of.”

“And how long ago was that?” It didn't escape him that her shuffling feet brought her progressively closer to him. He didn't let go of her shoulder.

“Not sure. Almost thirty years. I think. Give or take.”

Everything started making sense; Her antsiness, her paranoia, her distrustfulness, her awkward conversation switching between sharing openly and seemingly not knowing how to explain herself.

“Shit, that's roughly twentyfive years.” A few quick calculations and he guessed she was probably around his own age.

She nodded but said nothing. He studied her closely, but other than taking another few swigs of brandy she did nothing. If he wanted the conversation to continue he would have to keep it going himself. How in the name of all things dank and dusty did they get from tipsy and flirty to this?

“And there weren't any you'd want to stay in touch with? Not one?”

“There was one.”

“A friend?”

“I'd thought so, but I guess he regretted it.”

“Regretted...” he let the question hang.

“When he realised what I'd become. Kept his distance. Avoided me. I didn't push it.” The tonelessness of her slightly brandy-slurred speech could just as well have come from a golem.

“You were lovers?”

“No. Nothing like that. I guess he just disapproved of my continued existence.”

“Oh yeah, that's rich; one cat condemning another for being the same.”

She looked up and met his eyes just then. There was life – no, fire – in her eyes and voice, when she spoke again. “It wasn't like that! **He** wasn't like that! Isn't. Wasn't. Fuck, I don't even know. He was... is better than the rest of us put together.” Her face fell and she looked back down. “Can't blame him for wanting nothing to do with me.”

A few more pieces of the puzzle clicked together in Eskel's head. He didn't know how much of that old friendship was replaying in her mind, while their odd conversations had unfolded, but he did know that only when he was adamant about not fitting her script, did it seem to sink in for her. That he could do. That he could definitely do.

“All right, all right, never mind.” At least she was out of the deadened state of mind again. “Look, I don't know what you've been through. But I know that I like you, no matter what you've done, and I especially like being alive, which I have you to thank for.”

She nodded and began to turn away, back towards the fire. He stopped her, hands on her shoulders.

“Wait, please hear me out?”

She met his gaze, cautious eyes peeking out from under her lashes. Another nod. He really hoped he'd be able to follow through on what he'd just started. This kind of shit was not his strongest suit, but he was determined to not let his passivity ruin something for him or anyone ever again.

“What you've done for me here; it goes far beyond just saving my life. One of the first things I noticed, when I woke up, was that you'd placed my weapons within easy reach.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

“You didn't think I'd noticed, did you?”

She looked away. Down. He let go of her to give her space, hoping she'd remain where she was.

“I did. You offered me privacy, the decent thing to do, yeah, but you also made sure my weapons were cared for properly. That wasn't necessary for saving my life, nor even for being decent. You made every effort to show me that you were no threat, despite not knowing whether I might turn out to be a threat to you.”

She opened her mouth to protest.

“No, please let me finish. And don't even think about objecting to that. I'm neither blind nor stupid.”

The familiar, quiet, nasal laugh acknowledged his words. “I never thought that.”

“And yet you're still surprised that I've come to appreciate your company; who you are. For fuck's sake, cat, you offered me a shave, because you noticed I was unable to manage on my own just yet. You didn't have to do that, but you cared enough to do it anyway.”

Eskel was on a roll now, and he knew he had to finish it, before the blush that was creeping onto the witcheress' cheeks made everything too awkward. And her eyes that had slowly widened further and further as he spoke were taking on a slightly panicked glaze.

“I'm sure I don't know half of what's troubling you, but despite it obviously being a big deal, you've gone out of your way to not bother me with it. Well, now I'm bothering with it anyway, because that's what friends do, and I'd like to consider us friends.”

He waited for her reaction. When it came it was only partially surprising. Once again she looked down and turned her head away from him. He waited. He could see her throat and jaw working furiously, and a single high pitched laugh escaped her.

“Friends...” she kept her eyes downcast. “I'm not sure what that even means.” Her voice was just a hollow whisper.

“It means looking out for each other when necessary.”

She looked up at him again with a look in her eyes he hadn't seen before. Bewilderment? Helplessness? A combination? He couldn't be sure.

“I don't know how...” Her whispered plea made no sense to him.

“That's bullshit. You've been doing it just right the past couple of weeks. Helping out, cheering up, looking after. That's what it is. Helping just because your help was needed, and you wanted to give it.”

“I... oh.”

He waited for what felt like ages for a further reaction, but she seemed completely lost in thought and he was getting seriously cold.

“Uhh, cat?” He held his hand out to her. “Friends?”

She shook herself out of it and her eyes sought his again. Her slightly stunned expression left her looking a bit vapid; something he knew her to be anything but, and he had to strangle a laugh that threatened to spill out. This was definitely not the time for that.

Hesitantly she unwound her hand from where it was tightly clutching the cloth of her cloak. And finally she took his own.

“Yeah. I can do this,” she said and he felt her grip tighten with more conviction. “Friends. Yeah.”


	23. Interlude 11

“I don't believe this...” Lambert sounded exasperated. “You tied yourself into knots over 'the talk',” he mocked and shook his head, “and then you bond over it, you tell her about the Ademayn girl and you make friends. Fuck's sake, Eskel...”

“I was as surprised as you are.”

“You don't even talk to us about that girl.”

Eskel glared at him. “And you wonder why?”

The younger witcher reared in mock offense. “Have I been anything but an attentive listener this morning?”

A shake of his head was all Eskel would offer him in return, but then he regretted it anyway. “Why **do** you take such an interest?”

“Because you got laid, of course. Gotta know what sort of woman will put up with your ugly ass.”

“Cut the crap, Lambert. I've told you plenty to satisfy that curiosity.”

“But you also said you fucked twice more, and you've only told me of one of those times.”

“I said, cut the crap. We both know that you know how sex works, with or without me involved in it. Spill.”

“All right, all right.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “It's the cat part. Actually.”

“Huh, really. Why would that interest you?”

“I've known a witcher from the Cat School. Two actually.”

“And?” Now this was getting interesting. Lambert hadn't mentioned this before.

“They're both dead.”

Eskel waited for his friend to continue.

“One was my friend. He was the exception I mentioned earlier this morning. The kind of exception you're telling me this woman of yours isn't – or wasn't. Whatever.”

“She isn't mine, Lambert. Haven't seen her since, remember?”

“Right. Anyway, Geralt can ttell you about the other one as well. 'Cause we went to see him in his house in Novigrad.”

“Novigrad? Why would a witcher have a house in Novigrad?”

“Because he wasn't plying the witcher trade anymore. He'd moved on to mercenary work, highway robbery and eventually slave trading.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work,” Eskel readily agreed and Lambert nodded. “So why'd you go see him?”

“To kill him. He killed my friend.”

“The other cat...”

“Yes. So you see, I'm curious about these people and their school. I met one who was a better man than I could ever hope to be. And then I met one who was the worst piece of shit to ever come out of any witcher school. And yes, that's when I'm taking into account what Berengar did.”

Eskel nodded. Now it made sense. “So what is it you really want to know?”

“Anything she told you about the school, her background, what the fuck they've been doing to their recruits to get such different results.”

“Well, she did tell me a few more things about the school, but I'm not sure what fucked her up more. That or her life before she became a witcher.”

“ **Did** she tell you how old she was, then?”

“Yeah, about twenty, she wasn't entirely certain.”

“Wait, you're saying she didn't know how old she was?”

Eskel wasn't sure, whether he had any right to tell Lambert what the cat had told him. He probably didn't. But on the other hand, she probably wasn't around anymore, and Lambert wasn't one to blab to everyone anyway.

“She had some idea, but she also had good reasons for not knowing it exactly.”

“And she told you this, but never told you her name?”

Eskel shrugged. How was he supposed to know the workings of a madwoman's mind? “I can only repeat to you what she told me.”

Lambert nodded and Eskel was about to continue his tale, when he was halted by Lambert cheeky grin. “But by all means, don't leave out the sex.”


	24. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note there will be some sexual content here as well as the mention of rape and sexual abuse - nothing graphic.

He pulled her in for an embrace that wasn't entirely selfless. He really needed to soak up some heat. She stepped into his arms willingly, and he was very happy to note that she was quite warm. Her blanket had evidently been enough. Instantly his mood improved.

“Uhh, wolf?” Her voice sounded from below his chin.

“Mm hm?”

“You're awfully cold.” He felt one of her small hands feeling up his back.

“Tell me about it,” he laughed lightly. Before he could suggest it, she had turned towards the fire and was pulling him with her.

He sat down cross-legged, grateful to be within the warm radiance of the flames again. He really **had** gotten awfully cold. That's probably why the cat took him by surprise, when she nimbly sat down in his lap, wrapped her legs around him and hung her cloak around his shoulders.

“There,” she said and winked at him, “warmed it up for ya.”

Having relinquished her cloak she once again treated him to the sight of her partially naked self. He groaned involuntarily as his hands sought that exceptionally comfortable position at her waist, from where they could roam down her thighs and round to her ass. Her knowing smile told him she knew exactly what that was doing to him. Where she was sitting, she'd feel it, too, as soon as he had warmed up and his body would start responding again.

“Gonna need it,” he mumbled. “I'm too cold to be of any use at the moment.”

She smirked at him and handed him the brandy bottle. “How about we return to the original plan of getting drunk? See where that takes us?”

He took the bottle and downed a couple of hearty gulps, there wasn't much left anyway. It wasn't bad brandy either, though he couldn't determine the precise origin of it, not that he cared to worry about it. When he opened his eyes again he found hers studying him intently – again. They both seemed to be doing that a lot.

“You know,” he began, “you can just ask if there's anything you want to know.”

She tilted her head left, giving him a full view of the scar the alp had left across her throat. He reached up and traced the line with a finger as she'd done to his earlier. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

“I don't really know what to ask to be honest,” she admitted, keeping her eyes closed and letting him continue his explorations that eventually just led his hands back to rest at her waist. “You're of the wolf school, you usually winter in Kaer Morhen, you're not easily disturbed, however, you **are** easily distracted. By certain things at least.”

He was not unaware of her hands making their way up his chest, her fingers meticulously tracing every little scar they passed along the way. “Arrow?” She asked as she reached the little puncture wound below his right shoulder.

He nodded and then realised her eyes were still closed. “Mm hm.” It wasn't the most eloquent confirmation ever, but her assessment of his distraction was accurate. He closed his eyes as she slid her fingers over his shoulders and further up into his hair, this time without focusing on how his skull was mending. He relaxed into the gentle circular motions she made, and he didn't even realise she had tilted his head forward before his forehead touched hers. His eyes flew open and he looked straight into the cat's golden gaze.

The intensity of her eyes made him grasp instinctively for a bit of distance. “Point taken,” he joked with a lop-sided smile he knew she couldn't see. She didn't prevent him from withdrawing from the closeness, and instead let her hands rest on his shoulders.

“You really weren't kidding, when you said you weren't used to this sort of thing.” There was a slight smile playing about her mouth.

“Did you think I was?”

“I admit, I thought you might have been exaggerating a bit. That it's just me.”

“Heh, I wasn't. And it isn't. Definitely not just you.”

“Couldn't help but notice down below that you know what to do, though.”

Oh, now it was her turn to ask questions without asking. A nice gesture even if it wasn't necessary. “You're no beginner yourself. Just because I don't have hordes of admirers doesn't mean I don't pay attention, when I do get lucky.”

“Oh, really now?” The cat's smile widened, and from what he could tell, she was attempting for a coy look. It didn't work out so well. She knew it and instead ended up laughing and shaking her head. “Man, I shouldn't attempt such crap. It's no good with this face.”

“You don't need to.” He gave her hips what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “You've had my attention since day one.”

“Yeah, I kinda knew that. I just... errr, I usually don't uhm. Fuck it, lemme start over... with more booze.” She leaned over and had to stretch quite far to grab two of the bottles she'd brought up from the depths the other night. Eskel admired her abs in the meantime and helpfully supported her by holding on to her thighs. Completely without any self-interest whatsoever. Obviously. The look she gave him, when she settled back on his lap, was smoldering, and he shamelessly enjoyed every moment of it.

He took the opened bottle she offered him and sniffed it. Strong stuff. And quite good, too. Dwarven most likely. As their eyes met over their new beverages they realised at the same time that they'd been doing the exact same thing in checking out the spirits.

“Cheers, wolf.” She held up her bottle with an amused grin.

He followed suit. “Cheers, cat.” On an impulse he added. “To new friends.”

The look in her eyes was undicipherable when she agreed: “Yeah. New friends.”

They drank. The cat drank considerably more than he had expected her to, and when she wiped at her mouth he was fairly certain she'd downed half the bottle. It seemed she noted the same thing, because she was glaring menacingly at the thing.

“I don't think it's gonna do anything,” was his best bid for getting her attention back to their conversation.

“I hope it will,” she sighed.

“Uhh what?”

“Give me courage. Liquid courage.” She waved the bottle gently between them.

“Now you're just making me curious. What were you going to say?”

“Not say. Ask.” The booze was hitting her fast and her words were getting more slurred as she spoke.

“All right. What were you gonna ask?” Either it would be a really personal or rude question or something outrageous. That was all he could think of.

The cat for her part took a deep breath. “We're probably gonna end up fucking again, yeah?”

He nodded, unable to figure out where she was going with that. It had been on the cards all evening, so why she felt the need to ask puzzled him.

“I... you... oh, this is weird.” She let out a frustrated snort. “You said something before...”

“We've been talking for a while now. Could you be a bit more specific maybe?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed his attempt at lightheartedness with a wave of her hand. “You said something about friends. And... and caring.”

“Uh huh.” That at least told him which end of the conversation she was thinking of, narrowing it down somewhat.

“It made me think. I'm not... I'm used to... I usually...” She sighed and exclaimed: “This is bullshit,” and then downed another few rounds of booze. If not for her witcher's constitution she would have been unconscious by now.

Eskel waited for her to pull her thoughts together, taking a few drinks of his own in the meantime, then regretting the moderation and taking several more before setting the bottle down. He was beginning to worry about what was on her mind, but as annoyed as she was with her conversation skills, her seated position on his lap was mostly relaxed, so he was at least somewhat confident that it didn't have anything to do with him. Or them. Or anything truly bad, really. Maybe just embarassing? Yeah, that had to be it.

She was ready to try again. “What you said about me. About me having cared for you. It... Usually when I've fucked somebody, it hasn't been someone I cared for. It definitely hasn't been a friend. Obviously.”

He nodded. Since she claimed she had none, it was indeed obvious.

“Nor has it been someone who cared for me.”

He wanted to protest that, but thought better of it and just nodded, though he wasn't certain she'd notice. She'd completely given up on looking at him and was staring over his shoulder off into a dark corner of the room. Instead he made small caresses with his thumbs, where they rested on her thighs.

“The ones I've bedded. We've never known each other very well. Sometimes not even liked each other. It's better that way. Easier, anyway.” She swallowed thickly. “You didn't mention helping you out with needs of a more personal kind, when you listed what kinds of friend-things I'd already done for you.”

“Yeah, that's because friends don't usually fuck. Usually,” he clarified, “they save that for a spouse.”

“But we're not terribly usual people. And neither of us is the settling-down type.” He could tell it took effort when she deliberately sought his gaze again. “I've never... actually, and I probably never... ahh fuck it.”

He knew exactly what she was getting at now.

“You think we...” she faltered, and from the tension in her legs he could tell she was about to let out another frustrated sound. So he took mercy on her.

“I think I know what you mean.”

“You do?” Her shoulders lowered abruptly. Eskel hadn't even noticed the full extent of her nervousness about leaving herself so vulnerable, but now that he'd seen it, it made sense.

“Yeah, and I get it.” He reached out and cupped her cheek with his palm. Surprisingly she leaned into his touch. “Let **me** take care of **you** for a change, cat.”

“I thought you said you were cold?” She was dodging the topic, and he was rather proud of himself for having gotten so good at identifying her avoidance immediately.

“How about you leave that concern to me?” It occurred to him suddenly that the problem might be of a different sort. “You're right about us not settling down. And I'm not gonna declare my undying lov-”

A soft snort interrupted him. “I wouldn't believe you if you did, wolf.”

“I know. But that whole speech I gave over there?” He nodded in the direction of where they'd been standing before. “I wasn't bullshitting. I care. Not sure how it happened, what with you plying me with sex, violence and booze; amazing really. But I care.”

This time she did smile slightly at his continued insistence on keeping things lighthearted, but she said nothing. He would have to put to words the request she hadn't been fully able to make.

“You want to know what it's like with someone who cares, right?”

She looked away and nodded. “I don't even know whether there'll be a difference.”

His experience with genuine affection was admittedly limited, but at least it wasn't non-existent, so he could tell her: “There will be, but only if you allow it.”

Her eyebrows pulled together with puzzlement, and he continued before she could voice the question.

“Am I wrong if I say you've probably never really trusted any of the ones you've bedded?”

The familiar, lop-sided, bitter smile confirmed his suspicion. The look in her eyes was still guarded, and he wondered why she had seemed so unsure, almost afraid, to even bring this up. Then again... She was a witcher; stronger by far than normal humans and definitely able to defend herself. Aside from another witcher, he doubted she could find a lover, she couldn't easily show the door. With her hands tied behind her back. Drunk. And blindfolded for good measure. Fuck it, from what he'd seen, she could probably kick a fair few witchers' asses, too. She could trust herself to be able to handle pretty much anything, but trusting a lover to not make it necessary for her was something else.

“If you want to feel a difference, you'll have to trust me to care for you – to let me. Don't think I didn't notice how you avoided answering the question before.”

It was impossible not to smile as she ducked a bit and nodded a silent admission to his accusation.

He waited a bit before re-stating the question:“So, can you? Let me take care of you?”

The smile she sent him was uncertain and sad, but it was a smile nonetheless. “I don't know, wolf, but I'll try. This is probably the only...” she didn't complete the sentence.

He could finish it, though: “...chance you'll ever get?”

“Yeah, something like that. Just didn't want to dwell on what a pathetic and depressing shit I really am.” She crinkled her nose at her self-assessment. “If you're willing to be patient with me, I'll take you up on your offer. I uhh don't trust easily.”

Now it was his turn to snort with laughter. “No shit. I never would've noticed.”

Good. Though she didn't laugh, the humourous glint was back in her eyes.

“Tell you what. We'll take it slow.” The suggestion was perfectly serious.

Before he could continue, however, her eyebrows shot up, and the humourous glint had become dancing mirth. They laughed. Evidently they both had the same thought.

“I know, I know,” he conceded, “knowing us, it won't stay slow, but you can start out by trusting me to set the pace, and then we'll see how you feel about it as we go along. How's that sound?”

“Uhhh it makes more sense than I expected it to.” She grabbed the booze again, but apparently thought better of it halfways and left the bottle where it was. Her yellow eyes were intense when she looked at him again. “I think I already kinda do. Trust you, I mean.” A gentle squeeze with her legs emphasized the statement, and Eskel was momentarily taken aback with just how much had happened between them over the past few hours, and with how none of it seemed at all out of place considering the events of the past two weeks.

A very enjoyable fuck, albeit a somewhat impersonal one, had led to a hesitant friendship, and though he had no illusions about their respective futures – the Path was ever a solitary one – there was definitely room for affection in a friendship between freaks. It might just be for a little while, but that was still more than many witchers ever got.

He pulled her in for a kiss. Her lips were rough and chapped, the cold and her malnutrition having taken their toll on every little part of her. He didn't care, he figured his own weren't that different. It was hardly important. Neither of them pretended at love, but intimacy of this kind was rare for the both of them, and he was not going to leave anything out. Her movements were a bit stiff, and he couldn't help but smile slightly, his lips curling against hers. She definitely wasn't used to – nor entirely comfortable with – letting someone else take the lead. He could sense how she was about to instinctively withdraw and distance herself several times, and every single time the tension in her body told him how she fought it down. She was committed to this, but he would definitely have to move slowly.

Finally he felt her hands begin to roam. That was his cue to deepen the kiss. She responded with some hesitation, as if she were trying to remember things from very long ago. It was an odd contrast – yet another one – to the confident movements of her strong fingers on his skin, carressing, scratching; apparently it wasn't necessarily gentle intimacy she wanted. He was neither surprised nor dissuaded at that. Especially not after their antics below. That was for later, though, first she needed a chance to get comfortable.

Eskel took his time every step of the way. She had decided to trust him enough to even attempt this, and he was determined to not disappoint her. By the time he laid them down on the blankets, it seemed her confidence in that fact had solidified. When he proceeded to undress them, she managed to take an active part without trying to hide behind efficiency and use action to distance herself. When eventually he made his way back up her body to let her taste herself on his lips, her dazed expression couldn't hide the warmth that shone in her eyes.

It came as no surprise that she wanted to reciprocate. What did surprise him was how good she was at keeping him right on that maddening edge of oblivion. He was just about ready to beg – not entirely unfair either, considering the things he'd had her mumbling earlier – when an abrupt loss of contact forced him to focus on the teasing smirk of the witcheress above him. Her suggestion to no longer keep it slow didn't need to be made twice.

Basking in the afterglow had never been stranger. He lay on his back among crumpled blankets, the cat lay on top of him chin resting on the back of her hands that lay flattened on his chest. The strong scent of arousal was thick in air around them, while the smells of blood, decay, necrophage oil and smoke made up the background. He absent-mindedly traced the furrowed scar on her ass and back.

“You really like that one, hm?” Though her sated grimace didn't change, he could hear the smug grin in her voice. Her diction was less slurred now, though she was still audibly affected by the copious amounts she'd consumed.

“Can't help it,” he defended himself, “you have the most incredible ass I ever laid hands on.” He nearly bit his own tongue, apparently all the alcohol he had consumed hadn't left him entirely unaffected either.

“I meant the scar, silly.”

Oh well, he might as well go all in. “I know. That scar sits on the most incredible ass I ever laid hands on. So obviously I like it. I like the whole thing.”

More than hearing it, he felt her laughter, when the muscles of her stomach tightened against his own. He didn't remove his hands from her, and she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she laid down and rested her cheek against his skin, a deep, contented sigh escaping her. Her fingers were gently playing with the hair on his chest. It tickled, but he didn't give a shit.

He couldn't tell if he had actually been asleep or had just been far away. His return to the present was brought about, by the sudden awareness that the tickling sensation was gone. He poked her shoulder. “Hey, you intend to go to sleep there?”

“Why? You going anywhere?”

“I s'pose not. Might get cold, though.”

“Oh, right.” She reached for the cloak that lay discarded, but it was out of reach. “Dammit. Oh well.”

It was with obvious reluctance and a pout proving she still wasn't entirely sober that she removed herself from him. The cold rush of air to his skin previously covered by her body told him his concern hadn't been frivolous. He sat up and stoked the fire, and the cat soon returned to his side with all the blankets currently present in the camp.

Eyeing the blankets he grinned at her: “You don't do anything by half.”

“No,” she shrugged, “what would be the point?”

She dumped the cloth heap and herself next to him, and they both wrapped themselves up in the warm wool. They sat in companionable silence for a long while before Eskel decided to open the conversation again. He knew he was taking a risk, but at this point it no longer mattered. He was in too deep anyway.

“Your friend. The one who distanced himself. Who was he?”

The witcheress didn't respond at first, and he was about to repeat the question, when he noticed the far-off look in her eyes and the tense set of her jaw.

Eventually she spoke: “You want the short or the long version?” His patience had paid off.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Hmm. Fair enough.” She thought for a moment longer before she began her tale.

“I had stayed at a farm for a couple of years. The couple who owned it had taken me in. I would work in return for food and lodgings. Simple arrangement really and food and lodging were all I thought to ask for. I suppose it was a fairly sweet deal for them, even if I wasn't very big.”

“Not very big?”

“I was... I dunno, maybe eleven or twelve.”

“You were an orphan?”

She nodded. “It was actually pretty good living there. Even if I never did become part of the family. I wouldn't have known what to do with that anyway. They gave me some blankets and I slept in the hayloft over the stable, where a couple of cows and a handful of goats stood. Compared to what I was used to, I felt it was fit for a king. I suppose all good things come to an end.” Her wistful smile was easily recognisable despite being distorted by her scars.

“Yeah, all too frequently they do,” Eskel agreed, and he was fairly certain he wasn't the only one thinking of their current amicable fireside chat.

“This came to an end, when I started maturing physically. The couple had two adult children. The eldest, a woman, was long since married and living on the far side of the nearby village. I only met her a few times. She seemed terribly hostile to me, though I don't know why. It wasn't like I had taken anything of hers. In fact, I was probably just doing for her folks, what she had been doing before she found herself a husband. I really don't know why she seemed to hate me so.”

“Anyway, her younger brother apparently noticed how I was growing up, and I must have been about fourteen, when he decided he wanted to see for himself how much of a grown-up I was. He didn't even try for a seduction at first. Not that it would have worked. He just went straight to attempting to take what he wanted. Unfortunately for him, I was carrying a knife with me, you know, like most people do, and I knew how to use it in self-defense.”

“I didn't really think, when I defended myself. He'd already grabbed me and first slammed me into a wall, then thrown me to the floor of the stable. I'd hit my head, so I didn't have the presence of mind to try and calm him down and threaten him to leave me alone. Probably wouldn't have worked anyway. When he climbed on top of me and started to wrestle my skirt up, I knifed him. He bled out on the stable floor partially on top of me. My clothes revealed with no uncertainty my involvement in his death, and when his parents saw me stumbling from the stable in that condition, it didn't take long for anyone to accuse me of cold-blooded murder.”

Eskel couldn't quite figure out how this had anything to do with the witcher he'd asked about, but he **had** requested the long version, so he listened, while quietly fuming about how people would treat a mere child.

“The village reeve had me brought to the sheriff of the town nearby. No real trial was ever held, just some official listening to a bunch of grievances I never even knew people held against me. Who knows, maybe they made them up on the spot? I had apparently tried to seduce the man in order to get my hands on his parents' farm, no idea why I would've killed him, then. I had also attempted to replace the daughter as heir to the farm, even though she wasn't an heir until her brother died. As proof they held the fact that I hadn't demanded payment for my work. It was very strange.”

“Obviously, I was sentenced to hang.” They both snorted at the cruel predictability of some things.

“Waiting in the cell, the sheriff came to me and made me an offer. He had apparently believed all the stories about what a seductress I was, and he wanted a taste of his own. The deal he offered me was that he would fake my tragic death from a disease in prison, and my body would burn instead of hang, none would be the wiser, and in return I would serve as his mistress for a year. I figured my chances of escape were better if I had more time to think about it, so I took the deal. I didn't hang.”

“What I hadn't expected was to meet other mistresses in the same situation. Two in fact. A third had recently died in childbirth – at least that's what we were told. It was her body that would be burned in my place. Adara was her name, the two others told me. They also told me it wasn't the first time he'd made such a sneaky exchange.”

“What a piece of shit!”

“Mm hm. That sheriff was the murder I most regretted not committing.”

“So how did you escape?”

“Patience, planning. Maybe a slight bit of ingenuity. I was there in his basement with the two others for several months. We had a plan, though we didn't get to carry it out before Mina died; succumbed to disease. I'm glad he didn't have a replacement for her lined up. Corinne and I had to execute our plan alone, and looking at it in hindsigt we took some ridiculously stupid and unnecessary risks, but we were lucky.”

“And the sheriff?”

“Well, if we had killed him, it would've been found out what he'd been doing, and people would know to look for us. If we left him alive, he couldn't have anyone search for us, because that would mean admitting to the existence of his neat little operation. We kinda counted on his need to protect his own ass. I don't actually know what happened immediately after our escape. I managed to nick a pouch of gold from his stores, and with that we bought passage for Cori to Maecht, where I think she said she had an aunt or something.”

“And you?”

“She offered me to join her, but I had had quite enough of people. I sent her on her way, bought some gear for myself and headed into the wilds.”

“The wilds. Why?”

“I mean it when I say I'd had enough of people. The folks at the farm who took me in, were the only ones who had ever been kind to me. And that ended quite abruptly, when I didn't allow their son to rape me. I stayed in the wilds for years. During the first year or so I frequently stole from solitary farmsteads, when things were tough, but I kept it to a minimum and mostly just stayed away from people and their homes. Winters are mild that far South; hardly even wintry by your Northern standards, so traps and snares could keep me fed and reasonably clothed, once I'd gotten the hang of it. Good thing I had learned all I had, while still at the farm, otherwise I would have had to take Cori up on her offer.”

“So what does this have to do with your friend?”

She laughed. “Because there were still many things I didn't know about the world, even if I **had** figured out that people are often not worth the ground they walk on. While I had sometimes come across monsters – and kept my distance, too – I hadn't run into any monster slayers. I didn't know what a witcher was; had never even heard of them. Maybe if I had bothered talking to people, I'd have heard stories, but I hadn't.”

She shook her head, smiling at this part of the reminiscences. “My food stores were running low at some point, and I had already preyed enough upon the local villages. I didn't want to announce my presence, so I wouldn't steal anything that couldn't be blamed on a hungry fox or something like that. And then during the night, not too long before daybreak, I spotted a campfire by a roadside. Only one person sitting by it. I thought that was my lucky break – perhaps it was – and I quietly stalked his camp. He was up awfully early, I had been too late to catch him while sleeping. In hindsight, he probably hadn't been sleeping, but had settled just for meditation that night. Can't be sure though, as I don't know when he'd arrived at the spot. Anyway, I waited until he went into the bushes – presumably to relieve himself. I took the chance and went for his ration pack intending to be out of there in no time.”

Eskel grinned. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Yeah. He was a witcher. He'd heard and seen me watching him, and had just wanted to see what I'd do if he left his camp. He wasn't taking a piss, obviously, he was circling back, and before I'd gotten my hands out of his bag again, there was a knee between my shoulder blades pinning me to the ground and a blade at my throat. He was so fast, I nearly shat myself. I was certain I was about to die.” Her wry smile was humourous now.

“Lucky for me he wasn't prone to vengeful rage.” Her reference wasn't lost on Eskel, but he didn't comment. “He just asked me what I thought I was doing stealing from a witcher. That was risky business if anything. I didn't know how to answer him. It was the first time in years a person had spoken to me, and I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd bothered to listen in on conversations between travelers or villagers. I mostly approached when people were asleep after all. Hearing words again was one thing. I hadn't spoken any myself for even longer. I'm not sure how long I lived in the wilds. Four, maybe six, years? I can't really say.”

“I think he caught on to the fact that I was lying there making like a gaping fish. He sheathed his blade and turned me around to look up at him. I was about ready to brace myself for an attempted rape again, but that was an unjust assumption, 'cause he just looked at me. I must have been quite the sight. Clad in a patchwork of rabbit skins and the like, dirty, quite thin – malnourished even – and so afraid I was about ready to claw his face off and make a run for it. I'm sure he was instantly charmed at the sight of me.”

She didn't leave him time to laugh at her sarcasm, but continued on: “I have no idea how he caught on to why I wasn't answering him, but he did. **I** understood **him** well enough, but I just couldn't find words of my own for the first long, long while. Instead he asked me questions I could answer with a nod or a shake, and before he let me up he gave me food. Probably to make sure I'd stay for further questioning. Not that he couldn't have run me down, had I bolted.”

“I stayed. Instead of moving on as he had probably meant to – he never did say – he remained camped there the next day. And come the next morning he invited me to come along. He didn't force me or anything. I agreed and he let me leave camp without an explanation, when I needed to go get my things, fishing spear and such. It took him six more days of talking to me before I finally managed to talk to him. Along the way he turned in a contract for a nest of nekkers – I refused to enter the village with him, and just waited for him to come back out. I think he was actually surprised to find me waiting for him.”

“The next stop was somewhat worse, and I got to see him in action, after a firm lecture to stay out of the way while he took care of an arachas that was bothering the woodworkers in the forest. I saw how the woodworkers treated him; suspicion and distance but with grudging respect for his skills. I had already experienced the distanced, suspicious treatment myself, and I began to understand why he might have taken an interest in me. I went with him to the village reeve, when he handed in the proof of the dead arachas.”

“I travelled with him for some weeks and he began teaching me proper fighting techniques with the daggers I used.”

“Oh, so that's why you prefer daggers? Old habit?” Eskel interrupted.

“Yeah,” she confirmed with a smile, “that and the fact I'm so damned short that swords are actually only an advantage for me, when I'm up against the truly monstrous or very big monsters or against many at once. Against humanoid creatures I have more of an edge, when I can rely on my speed and stealth. My ability to just sneak between their legs takes most by surprise.”

“Hah, you're welcome to sneak between my legs any day,” he joked.

“I reckon I won't need any sneaking for that, wolf,” she shot back with a laugh.

“Makes sense, though, I wondered why you only used your sword against the larger groups down below, but I figured it might be just be style-preferences.”

She nodded sagely: “Being as diminuitive as I am I have to be really careful how I do things. I've had to figure out a few special moves on my own that weren't in the regular curriculum at the school.”

“Yeah, how **did** you end up there?”

“Well, after several weeks we had left the woodlands and entered the Mag Deira. He had a lead on a big contract in Metinna, so that's where he was heading. Those prospects involved far too many people for me, though, so I refused to enter the city. Instead he gave me directions for a place, where I might find myself welcome and people willing to teach me more of what he'd begun. He would head there after he'd taken care of the contract. I admit, I traveled more slowly than I could have, so he would catch up before I got there. I wasn't keen on introducing myself to others just like that. But yeah, we got there together, he introduced me and I was pretty much just included in the activities there. His word probably counted for something, 'cause despite being older than most other recruits, I met with no resistance. The rest is history, as they say.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Huh, for some reason I imagined it would've been a lot more dramatic than that.”

“Dramatic? Why?” Puzzlement won out over the laughter in her voice.

“Dunno. You're good at telling stories. Maybe it's just that.”

“Maybe.” She looked at him with a little frown. “Anyway, your turn.”

“All right. What do you want to hear about?”

Her frown deepened a bit. “The little bit you told me earlier left a few questions unanswered. Your surprise child. You seemed more torn about it than I would've expected from what you told me. How did she die?”

That was not quite what he had expected her to ask about, but her reasoning was sound. His thoughts flew back to that day, when her presence had finally disappeared from his mind and left a void he still wasn't rid of. He might as well tell her.

“I didn't tell you everything,” he admitted.

“Yeah, I figured as much. So what happened.”

“The day I told you about, the day when Geralt returned for the winter and we had to decide what to do with the situation. Deidre had been camped in our courtyard for a couple of days. I'd tried talking to her, tried explaining to her that this wasn't a place for her, but she wouldn't budge until I could present her with an alternative. I had nothing of the sort.”

“Vesemir thought we should turn her out. Not get involved in the disputes of nobles and sorceresses.”

“Wise man, your mentor.”

“He didn't show much concern for her, though.”

“Oh come now, wolf, judging from your face, she knew her way 'round a sword well enough. She can hardly have been defenseless.”

He winced. “That's true.” Her comment had still stung a bit, even if he knew she hadn't meant it disparagingly.

“Lambert on the other hand, he was all for sticking it to the nobles coming to our door and making demands. He always heads straight for the most explosive confrontation he can find.”

“Haha, I take it he didn't applaud the decision to try and negotiate?”

“You have no idea. He's been a constant source of 'I told you sos' ever since. Which is why I never bring the subject up around him.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do I get the impression you never bring it up. Period?”

“Uhh, heh. Because you'd be right. Probably.” He looked around. “Anymore of that booze?”

The cat raised her eyebrows at him, but didn't comment. She twisted around and reached for a couple of bottles, handing him one with a small smile. He took a few pulls of the dwarven spirit.

“Geralt was mostly in agreement with me about her. We couldn't just let that damned sorceress carve her up, but we really couldn't take her in either. It's not like she'd be protected in Kaer Morhen. Most of the year there was no one there. She'd be no saferthere than anywhere else she might choose to hole up.”

“Makes sense. She couldn't see that?”

“No. I don't know why she expected to find knights in shining armour, when it was a bunch of grouchy witchers she sought out.”

The cat laughed. “Hey, you said it.”

“With Geralt's help we did manage to convince her that she should come to an agreement with her brother. She was testy already, because she didn't get her way, and we should have seen the warning signs. Especially since the sorceress and her pet prince hadn't kept any details from us about Deirdre's madness.”

“Madness,” his companion enquired.

“Yeah. Apparently when she was twelve she was raped by some charlatan who'd been hired to help with her dreams and hallucinations. Nobody had believed the old man to even be capable of violating her, but she fled the castle and hunted him down. His corpse was found, mutilated and castrated.”

“Doesn't sound mad to me. Vengeful, yes, violent, absolutely, but not mad. Remember that murder I regretted not committing?”

“Yeah. That piece o' shit sheriff.”

“The one. That's the kind of regret, you can actually fix. I went back and removed the man from his position a few years after my Trial. Made sure he'd never do anything like that to another woman. Ever.”

“Castrated him too?” Eskel wasn't sure he'd like the answer.

“No, that was unneccessary after I'd removed his extremities. He got the point. And then he died. Not really a pity. May he rest in torment.” She drank to that and Eskel wondered what exactly he'd gotten himself into with this woman.

“Still, she seemed to be excessive in her violence. Her hatred for the sorceress, with whom she also had a dispute over a man, was blinding. The man lost his mind, maybe even died, but whether it was due to Glevissig's magic or Deidre's curse, we couldn't say. We never got the truth out of any of them. And for her brother she had nothing but disdain, considering him weak and malleable, yet she had no problem admitting that she had too much of a temper. And her weird connection to dogs and wolves and the aura that rendered magic useless in her presence was definitely weird,” Eskel summarized for the cat's benefit.

“She damn near flew into a fit of rage, when we told her we couldn't just take her in. It was only because there were two of us talking to her, we could calm her. She eventually accepted that we didn't want to get into politics by making enemies out of royalty, and instead we offered to back her up in negotiations with her brother for some kind of agreement, whereby she could relinquish her claim to the throne, so he wouldn't have to fear her reappearance and she could be left alone.”

“Sounds like a fair bit of meddling in politics to my ears,” she drily pointed out.

“We couldn't just let them kill her!” His protest was probably a bit harsher than he'd intended, because the cat gestured defesnsively.

“Hey, I'm not judging. Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it. So, you said negotiations broke down?”

“Yeah. That Glevissig-bitch had to go and ruin everything. Deidre couldn't stand the sight of her. We'd tried to keep the talk between the two Ademeyn kids, but when Glevissig showed up Deidre just lost it. She went for the sorceress, I was in the way.”

“Damn, seems another man came between the two of them just then.”

Eskel choked on his booze at the cat's joke. “I... what? I didn't-”

“It sounds like she at least wanted to like you, and now she'd injured you in her rage for the witch. Who would she blame for that, I wonder? Herself, the curse, you, the sorceress?”

“The sorceress – and coincidence. When Geralt tried to calm things down, he told me she apologized and said she'd been acting on instinct. Because of her magic-negating aura, Glevissig was helpless against her, and Geralt tried to get her to lay down her weapon. She refused, they fought.”

“And he killed her?”

“No. The fight was broken up by Lambert, who needed Glevissig's help to save my life. Facing off against two witchers wasn't to her liking, so she bolted.”

“Shit. So obviously the sorceress helped heal you. I take it she demanded you stay away from her conflict with the girl?”

“You guessed it. I refused, though. Mad or not, we were still bound by Destiny and I kinda felt responsible for her, since I should have gone to get her long before any of the bad stuff had ever happened to her.”

“Except for the curse, you mean.”

“Yeah, except for the curse. But who knows,” he ruminated, as he always did, “ she might have made an excellent monster slayer, if we had helped her channel all that anger in a better direction. And we're supposed to be the ones who know how to deal with curses, after all.”

“So she ran and didn't die, but you said she died young.”

“Yeah.” This was the hard part and he took several long gulps to help him ignore the guilt that he had carried ever since. He was aware of the cat's eyes on him while he pondered how to put it to words. Eventually she looked away and he was grateful for the space that left him. It probably wouldn't hurt to start with how the ballad put it.

“She roamed Kaedwen for two years. Her anger and vengefulness extended to everyone now. She left dead people in her wake wherever she went. Gave no quarter. Ever. The bounty on her head kept rising, but no one dared take on the Mad Princess. And all of that time I knew exactly where she was, whenever I thought of her. I didn't know what she was doing, but I would always be able to find her. For two years I didn't, and she kept wreaking havoc on farmers and smallfolk who had never done her any wrong. Her wolves feasted on human flesh they said.”

“Alright, that does sound mad,” the cat quietly amended her earlier evaluation.

Eskel just nodded. “By now the story goes that eventually she was killed by a man with a hideous scar on his face.”

“You.”

“Me.”

“Shit, wolf, I'm sorry.”

“So am I, cat. Sorry that I didn't go get the girl when she was six. Maybe this could have all been prevented. Sorry that I didn't realise sooner what she'd become and step in then. Sorry that we didn't just take the confrontation at Kaer Morhen, so all those people wouldn't have had to die. And sorry that I didn't go after her straight away after she fled.”

The witcheress said nothing and when he chanced a look at her, she seemed like she was pondering what he'd just told her. There were no signs of judgment in her expression.

He drank deeply. “And I'm sorry she had to die at all.”

“There might've been nothing you could do.” She was right about that, and he knew it.

“Maybe, but as it stands, I hardly even tried.”

“That's not what your story shows so far. You did try to hel-”

“No,” he interrupted her, “I left it to Geralt to decide how to help, because I was too much of a coward to make a decision.”

“Being torn between two bad options doesn't make you a coward.”

“Maybe not, but I promised her, we at least wouldn't let that sorceress get her hands on her.”

“And didn't you just say you killed her?”

He knew he flinched, when she said it, and he knew she saw it. At this point he was too drunk to care what she thought about him. Could hardly be any worse than what he felt about the whole thing.

“After nearly three years of murdering, pillaging and an ever-rising bounty I couldn't ignore it any longer. I was on my way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, and village after village I passed through in Lormark had a story to tell. She'd come that far South and had been active in those parts for a few months. It was only mid-autumn, and I had expected to take a few contracts in Kaedwen on my way back, but this seemed more urgent.”

She nodded in understanding.

“I had no trouble finding her. All I had to do was think of her, and I knew where to go and how far it would be. I could tell she was still in the area. A few days' travel and I'd reach her. I followed that bond and caught up with her, while she was busy plundering another farmstead. She was in the process of setting it on fire, when I interrupted. Didn't get there in time to save the farmer from her wolves, but at least the family made it, and the blaze never really caught, so their homes mostly saved, too. When she saw me she fled.”

“She led me on a merry chase through the forests, but eventually I cornered her in a ravine. She didn't appreciate it, when I killed her wolves, but there was no way I would leave beasts with a taste for human flesh at my back, while confronting her.”

He sighed. “Long story short: we fought, I won. Ran her through. She was stubborn as fuck, though, and held on to the bitter end. I held her in my arms as she breathed her last. How she managed to be such a scared little girl and raging, violent lunatic at the same time is beyond me. All I know is that that place in my mind didn't act up, when I held her. And when she died that emptiness appeared in its stead.”

The witcheress beside him nodded slowly. “Damn. That's some story.”

“I buried her in that ravine. Wasn't meaning to pick up the bounty anyway. It seemed somehow wrong. And there was no way I would bring her corpse to Glevissig. Couldn't being myself to do that either. Of course that didn't matter in the end, because the witch tracked down the place and unearthed her remains anyway. Not that her examinations made anyone the wiser; there were no signs of any curse-related mutations, so she was apparently just normally mad, as if that makes a difference to all the people she killed. Fuck do I know? I slay monsters for a living – people tend to just make everything murky and complicated.”

The cat snorted softly next to him. “Now that is a truth I'll drink to.” And that she did, and he followed suit.

They once more sat in silence, looking at the campfire, before the cat surprised him with a quiet “thank you.”

“What for?”

“For trusting me with that tale. For what it's worth, I don't know that I would've done any better in solving the problem. I think you did the right thing.”

“Eventually,” he groused. Loathe as he was to admit it, it had actually done him good to tell the tale, and knowing she had no criticism did make him feel slightly better about it.

“Better late than never.” She smiled at him, and the friendly warmth he had begun seeing in them was tempered by sadness. “Have you ever been back? To her grave, I mean.”

“What's the point? It's empty.”

“But the place might have meaning now. I'm not saying you'll find any great revelations there. Just think about it.”

He hadn't thought about it before, but the idea wasn't half bad. Yeah. He would return and visit her empty grave at some point.

“Hey, cat. A question for you, then. I've asked you a couple of times now, and I've more or less accepted that I won't get your name out of you.”

“Maybe you will, maybe you won't,” she responded in her usual way.

He just shook his head and smiled at the standard form her deflection took. “What was the name of the witcher, who introduced you to the cats?”

She looked at him for a long time, studying him intensely enough for him to feel like squirming again. Eventually she sighed. “I guess I should stop being so damned paranoid. Aiden, his name was Aiden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some might recognise a mix of the plotlines/outcomes from the premium module, The Price of Neutrality, from The Witcher (the first computer game). Yes, I have picked, chosen and combined as I saw fit to suit my narrative purpose here.


	25. Interlude 12

Lambert spluttered. “His name was **what**?!?”

“Aiden. That's what she said. What about it?”

“But that's... damn. I didn't know he was that old.”

“Who?”

“Aiden! My friend I just told you about. Killed by that whoreson, Karadin. Can't be a coincidence. I knew he was experienced and probably older than me, but not that he was old enough to have... how old was she?”

“About my age. Give or take a decade.”

“Right...”

“It might be a coicidence, though. Aiden isn't exactly a rare name.”

“But a Cat Witcher. By that name. Who happens to be a good sort, if your ladyfriend's words are to be believed. And we know there aren't too many of the good sort from that school. No, has to be him.”

Eskel had to admit, a coincidence did seem rather unlikely. It just might be the same.

“Did she say anything else about him? Describe him? Anything?”

“I'm pretty sure he had those weird cat eyes.” He sighed. “Really. What are you looking for?”

“None of your business.”

“Huh, I could've sworn I'm the one you're currently interrogating, making it my business.”

“Alright, alright. Geralt and I looked into his death. I knew him to be a good man, and so I figured Karadin was an ass. Well, he was, but we also couldn't pin anything directly on him. The people we spoke to all pointed to each other. In fact the most credible one of them was a half-elf who was searching far too hard for answers at the bottom of a bottle.”

“So not very credible after all.”

“No, though I must admit I'm kinda glad the do-gooder over there,” he nodded in Geralt's direction, “prevented me from killing her. Probably wouldn't have been worth it. And Karadin was a clever whoreson, so no concrete evidence pointed to him.”

“But you killed him anyway? Lambert, you idiot, are you mad?”

“No. Angry. Which was why I had Geralt go over everything with me. Didn't want to do something hasty, kill the wrong man, that kind of thing.”

“Am I the only here, who thinks revenge is not something you should kill people over?”

“Psh.” Lambert waved him off. “The world is still a better place without Karadin. Whether or not he killed Aiden. But I'm sure he did. The point is: Some things were said about Aiden that I can't verify, because those whoresons killed him. And so, someone who knew him is of interest to me, because I'd actually like to know whether I've been wrong about the man I considered a friend.”

“Wrong how?” It wasn't often Lambert told him anything that wasn't an anecdote from the Path meant to impress.

“When Geralt suggested Aiden might have been partially at fault, I got kinda...”

“Pissy? Prickly? Angry? And this is different from your usual state of mind?”

“Hey, hey, hey, Master Moper, don't you start.” The younger witcher abruptly stopped the next outburst before it came. “I just need to know.”

“Whether he played you for a fool?”

Lambert nodded. “In which case he should be glad I didn't get to him first.”

Eskel for his part just hide his face in his hands. “Why am I surrounded by people whose first response to a slight is to draw a sword?”

“Because it's what we do.”

Eskel figured he may as well just humour him.“This Aiden does seem to have inspired the same loyalty and admiration in the two of you. She reacted pretty much like you. Got very defensive of him, but I really don't know what else to tell you. She seemed to think he disapproved of what she'd become, but she never was quite clear on what that was exactly.”

“Aside from a murderer,” Lambert helpfully supplied.

“Shove it.”

“D'you think he had good reason to disapprove?”

“She did.”

“And by now we know that both you and she should never be left to judge yourselves. What do **you** think?” Lambert insisted, and Eskel had to admit he was right.

“I don't know. Even with the things she did tell me, there was still a lot she didn't. Her name, her origins, though by the look of her, I'd say she's Zerrikanian, exactly why she'd been holed up in an ancient ruin by herself for seemingly no reason. Whatever it was she was hiding, she felt terrible about it.”

“And you believed her, when she said 'no atrocities', so what else could it be?”

“Beats me. She did say that thing about something catching up to her, but I couldn't get her to clarify any further. And she was adamant about not taking any chances and putting anyone at risk. That's kinda what convinced me she wasn't the monster she made herself out to be. She wasn't a saint, and she did definitely have a penchant for excessive violence, but she also had a strong sense of justice. So, I'd say her assessment of Aiden being mostly a good man is probably accurate enough. That make you happy?”

“Happy? Oh, Eskel it'll take a lot more than that to make me happy. Beautiful women would be good. You know, aside from the harpy upstairs.”

“Lambert! Give her a break. We haven't exactly made it easy for her either. She was alright last night, actually tried a little.”

“Whatever. What about your little lady? Did you take the advice?”

“What advice? Oh, that. Yeah. I did actually.”

Another embarrassment. “It actually took me two years, before I gathered the nerve to go there. So many bad memories. But she was right. It wasn't a revelation, but while I was there I didn't feel that void in my mind. I came back a few more times to just rest and meditate. The fourth time, when I left the ravine, the void didn't reappear.”

“She had you figured.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think too much and risk too little.”

Back then it might have been the truth, but by now – after the cat had shown him a few truths about himself – he was a lot better about it. “Two words for you, Lambert: masked ball.”


	26. Chapter 13

They spent the remainder of that night and a considerable segment of the morning drinking, talking and fucking in fairly equal amounts, making it impossible to determine which activity was the one to interrupt another. By the time pale daylight could be seen outside they reluctantly admitted to themselves it was probably about time they called it a night.

Neither of them could be arsed to sort out the blankets to sleep separately, and thus it was in a heap of pained groans and self-pity they awoke the following night. Bleary-eyed and miserable they swore off booze for at least the following twentyfour hours. No point exaggerating it, after all.

The fire had gone out, and without thinking Eskel re-lit it with a pair of fresh logs and a quick use of Igni. The witcheress flinched as flames erupted from his hand and she looked moderately embarrased about that fact. Neither of them commented on it; there was no need. Eskel did feel an urge to apologize, but refrained from doing so. She had pretended it didn't happen, and he was not going to poke a sore spot; he certainly had enough of them himself to know better. Getting the fire started again quickly had been paramount, and they both knew it. There was no telling how long they had been without one, but a wet chill was already settling around them, and it was most likely due to their new sleeping arrangements that they hadn't noticed it until they rose from their hungover huddle.

Thankfully, the logs caught easily, and soon cheerful flames were dancing underneath their pot of wyvern meat stew. It was solid enough fare, and it had kept them fed and healthy in the past couple of weeks, but he could tell from his companion's demeanor that he wasn't the only one to lament the lack of variety.

“How about we grab the last of the smoked fillets?” He figured the act of chewing on something might actually help settle the stomach. It sometimes did, anyway.

She readily agreed with him; the stew could simmer for another night.

After breaking their fast with the steak dinner the cat dressed and walked outside. She didn't return immediately. Eskel wondered, and though he hadn't taken note of how much time had passed, he became impatient nonetheless. He went after her – and this time he even remembered to wrap himself in a cloak first.

The snow in the little dell between the sheer cliffs was messy and far from pristine. Mantis had scraped his way to the grass all over the place. Regularly they had even helped him out by scraping free a new patch of grass. They had offered him oats every two or three days, rationing it out, but the animal had definitely lost more weight than was good for him. It was a worry Eskel had tried to put out of mind, but it was becoming harder to ignore the fact that if they remained snowed in much longer, Mantis would be a meal for them sooner rather than later. The horse had saved his life by bringing him to the cat, and he would really hate for the faithful beast to save his life again by becoming food for the two of them.

He scratched his friend behind the ears and the soft muzzle gently pushed at his arm, begging for carrots, apples or whatever else Eskel might once in a while have treated him to.

“I'm sorry. We're all out of apples.”

Mantis snorted in a timely manner, and Eskel took it as a fair judgement.

“I know, boy. I know. You deserve better than this.”

He looked around, but there was no sign of the cat.

“You see, where she went?” Mantis, of course, ignored his question and continued to poke around his torso in a vain hope of finding hidden treats.

If she wasn't in the dell, she had to be outside it. He headed for the ravine connecting it to the outside world. True enough, she was standing at the outer end of it, eyes closed and clearly sniffing the air.

“How bad is it?” He asked, trusting she'd know what he meant.

“I think your brave companion should have the rest of his oats now. In a day or two the grass will be easier to get to.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“Three hours ago, when we woke up, didn't you notice something about the air?”

He thought for a bit. “It was cold, but I don't... wait, it was wet!” He sniffed briefly, yeah, definitely wet.

“Exactly. Wet. It's not quite thawing yet, but by tomorrow night I think it will be.” She thought for a bit. “Normally I'd say you should hurry the fuck outta here, before the ground gets too waterlogged to walk a horse safely downhill, but given the mild winter, the ground probably isn't frozen underneath the snow and with a bit of luck, you'll be able to find a path that won't be too hard on him – even in his weakened state.”

Her choice of pronouns wasn't lost on Eskel. “You not coming with?”

“I... no. Don't think so.” She didn't turn to face him.

“Where are you headed, then?” He didn't have anywhere he desperately needed to be anyway.

“Think I'm gonna hang back for a few more days. Set some traps again, replenish some rations before I move on.”

“And where then?”

“Wherever the Path takes me, I guess.”

Did he dare suggest it? Yeah, why the hell not? “Why not join up for a bit? We make a good team.”

She turned towards him, disbelief evident in her entire posture. “What?”

“Oh, come on. We do!”

Her eyes searched his, and slowly the familiar, everso slight hint of a smile formed. She huffed quietly and looked away. “I s'pose you're right. Answer's still no, though.”

The refusal had been nothing other than what he expected. It wasn't important. She had understood the gesture and that's what mattered.

“Hey, let's get back inside. Too cold to just be standing around out here.” He walked a couple of paces back towards their shelter and then turned to see if she'd come along.

She did, but remained silent as they trudged back through the soggy snow. Her odd, pensive mood was contagious, and he soon found himself pondering all the things that had happened over the past couple of weeks; how the strange witcheress had gone from being his spontaneous saviour, over then being a reluctant companion and now to being a tentative friend, who had no idea what to do with that status.

Once back inside she began to separate their sleeping arrangements again. Apparently his puzzlement didn't escape her notice.

“It's nothing personal,” she explained – more defensively than he thought was necessary. “Or rather – it is. I like you a bit too much to want to wake up to having stabbed you in my sleep.”

That made sense and he grinned at her, hoping it would reassure her that he wasn't going to react badly. “I appreciate it. Gotta ask, though, last night, uhh, this morning didn't seem to be a problem. What gives?”

“It wasn't. My 'angry sleep', as you described it, is mostly curbed by being sufficiently exhausted or drunk – or both. There wasn't much of a risk.” She hesitated briefly. “Though I would be lying if I said there was none at all. I... am kinda tense.”

He laughed. “That's putting it mildly.”

She acknowledged the truth of that statement with the particular version of her lop-sided smile he'd come to associate with irony.

“You know...” she said, as if interrupting her own train of thought, “maybe I should simply go set those traps now.”

“There's no harm in it, I guess,” he answered, wondering if she was trying to arrange for leaving along with him anyway. He wouldn't assume anything. “Worst that can happen is nothing.”

“Mm hm.” She stood still for a bit, pondering the question with a forgotten blanket still hanging over one arm. “Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that.”

The blanket landed in a heap where she threw it on her bedroll before dressing for an excursion and picking up her gear.

“Right. Gimme an hour or so.” With that she jogged out with a spring in her step not unlike what he'd observed when they headed down below the day before.

She had an impressively low tolerance for inactivity. On one hand Eskel understood that. He wasn't one to sit idly by just waiting for time to pass. He would always find something to occupy himself with. Long winters spent in Kaer Morhen taught you how to entertain yourself, be it with books, training, repairs, story-telling or just plain drinking – and he could only spend so much time drinking, before the entertainment value decreased to the point of insignificance. Though maybe that had more to do with the drinking partners available to him. The drunken conversation and antics he'd had with the cat had been of an entirely different kind than he was used to.

It occurred to him that it probably wouldn't be possible to fall asleep again so soon after having woken up unless he did something active. As so many times before he could always fall back on the meditative rhythm of his training routine. He could sort through his thoughts while putting his body through the motions, and even if he only had about an hour until she would return, he could still put that hour to good use.

Nearly two hours later he had worked up a decent sweat when the witcheress padded in from the cold. She shrugged off her cloak and mittens and sat down to look at him with an eyebrow slightly raised.

When he was done and sheathed his blade, she spoke: “You were actually serious, when you said you get restless, too.”

“Yeah. Didn't you think I was?”

“Like I said, I found it hard to believe, but I'm beginning to see it.”

He shrugged not really knowing what to say about her observations. He settled for: “I never really liked lazing about. Not for long, anyway.”

The cat smiled. “Know the feeling. I suppose I found restlessness difficult to reconcile with you, because my own is more outwardly visible. You hide yours well.”

“Not really trying to.”

“Eh, anyway, what I actually wanted to say, was that maybe we could do another couple of forays down below before we leave?”

“Think that's a good idea?”

“No. Thar be monsters, after all. But I'd rather take the opportunity to go monster hunting with you.”

“Rather than what?”

“Sitting on our asses all day for the next couple of days.”

“We could just spar to keep us occupied,” Eskel suggested.

“True. But we could also rid the world of a number of necrophages.”

He liked that cheeky grin of hers. In truth he had already caved, he just had to try and put up a little resistance. Even just a little. “We're not getting paid for it, remember?”

“Is that a requirement?”

“I actually didn't take any pay for the wyvern contract that brought me here in the first place, so risking my neck even further for no pay is not exactly at the top of my list right now,” he admitted.

“I've got one word for you, then, wolf: loot.” She smirked and waved him over as she grabbed a small satchel that she handed to him.

Eskel checked its contents. Jewellery. Old. Precious stones and metals.

“From my little excursion the other night,” she explained. “I took only stuff I can carry with me easily. I might've taken more had I had a horse to unload some of it on to, but I don't.”

“Huh. Strange that nobody has looted the place before now.” He handed the satchel back to her, but remained crouched by her side.

“Not really. First they'd have to get here, and this is wyvern country. Then they'd have to find it, and then they'd have to contend with the current inhabitants.”

“When you put it that way... alright. Consider me convinced.”

“I knew you'd come around. Let's go tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow it is,” he agreed.

She warmed her hands by the fire, while her frown deepened. “Ugh, not really warming up as fast as I'd like. This wet cold is getting to me. Were you completely done training, or d'you think you have a friendly match in you?”

“Always!” He stood up and offered his hand to her. She took it and let him pull her to her feet.

The next five days passed in a blur for Eskel. The two of them settled into a routine that felt like they were old comrades in arms, just doing things like they always had. He took over breakfast-duty, so when the cat woke up – and she was always the first to rise – she instead went and set her traps and snares. When she got back he'd have their hot meal ready. His concern for Mantis dissipated, as the slowly melting snow receded to reveal more edible grass. After breakfast they would train, and during the afternoons they made short forays into the depths. The first day's looting saw him amply compensated for the wyvern contract, the rest were an added bonus.

And added bonus, too, was the experience of fighting by the witcheress' side. Once he had gotten used to her different style and technique, his assessment of them being a good team was absolutely accurate. Though she seldom used any Signs in combat – a rare Axii to handle an alghoul or Quen, when things got a little too hot – her speed and acrobatic skill let her weave about their opponents and herd groups of necrophages to allow him to make the most of every Aard and Igni he cast. He felt like she served him those kills on a silver platter. In return she often dodged the attacks of larger enemies, outright led them to him, as he could better withstand their blows, and quite often all he would have to do was parry and dodge until she'd maneuvred herself in on their weak points, taking them out with little effort, while they were busy trying to pummel him.

When returning to their camp in the antechamber she would continue on outside to check on the traps and snares and reset them for the night, while he would spend some time with Mantis, making sure the patient beast was alright, despite not having much company besides them and any birds that braved the cold.

Their stews were now vastly improved with different kinds of meat, and the third morning the snows had receded so much that the cat had practically been bouncing, when she came back from her morning trip. She had found leeks and kale. Not in the best condition after being soaked through in the thaw, but the hardy winter vegetables were edible nonetheless and added a welcome variety to their diet.

On the fifth day they packed up everything.

“You coming with, anyway?” Eskel hadn't dared hope, but there it was.

She nodded. “Just to the first village. I need to rid myself of some of this. Got them for a long term camp and can't be bothered to lug them around on the Path.”

Eskel nodded. It made sense after all.

“And I need to see about getting my hands on a horse again.”

“You lost your previous mount?”

“Not lost. Sold it. There'd have been no point in bringing a horse with me out here for a few months of camping. She was better off spending the winter in a warm stable.”

“Months? You didn't mention you've been here that long.”

“Yeah well, I have.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Funny. I remember you saying you came here to recover from a harsh winter. A few months means you've spent most of your winter here.”

Surprisingly she met his gaze straight on. “I does mean that, doesn't it?”

He sighed. “Here we go with the puzzles again.”

She actually looked slightly hurt at his remark, but she said nothing. Instead she turned her attention to packing the rest of her camping gear onto the horse. Mantis could luckily still carry a load without cause for concern, though Eskel would refrain from riding him until he was certain he was alright.

The silence was broken far more easily than the first week they'd known each other, and during their trek out of the foothills they had returned to the easy banter they had established between them over the past three weeks. They passed by a creek. It had been ravaged by a flash flood – by their best estimate a day or two earlier – and was now a sunken, soggy ravine, where the trees that had been standing close to the creek had been uprooted and washed away, some of them splintered and deposited here and there. Glad they had been patient and waited a little longer before leaving, they walked along the creek for a day before they had to make a decision.

“Nearest village will be in that direction.” The witcheress pointed further in the direction the creek ran. “But they're unlikely to have spare horses to sell. Place is so small it doesn't even have a name to it yet, but we can probably reach it in two days. Maybe a day and a half if the ground isn't too soggy.”

“I think a good place to go would be where I got the wyvern contract. Don't know about spare horses, it's a small place, but they'll have provisions for both us and Mantis. And they'll probably appreciate being told the wyverns have been taken care of.”

“Of course. Where was it?”

“Morlin Pond, they called it.”

“Hmmm, the pond being ringed partially by an unrecognizable ruin? That one?”

“Yep, that one.”

“I know the place. Though I haven't been by in several years. Was hardly even big enough to call a village back then.”

“Big enough to have a name, though.”

“Heh, the name belongs to the ruin. Elven in origin, if rather mangled now. Guess the name suits the ruin, then.”

“How do you know that?”

“I think, perhaps we learn a bit more about elven things than the other schools teach their young witchers.”

“Ah, right. Of course. Anyway, how far is it from here? If it's too far, we can stop elsewhere first.”

“No, I think it's doable. Again, if the ground hasn't become too soggy. Five, six days should do it. And on the plus side: we won't have to traverse all this debris from the flash flood.”

“Well, I'm pretty sold on that course, then. You?”

“Yeah, why not? If it's grown as big as you say, I'll be able to get rid of the clutter there, and then the presence of a horse won't be paramount for the next leg of my Path. Sounds good to me.”

The ground **was** soggy. Very much so. Though it wasn't so bad that they had to take Mantis for detours, it was bad enough that they couldn't lie down anywhere to sleep at night. Making do with kneeling meditation for a couple of nights in a row was doable, but five nights was pushing it, and when they finally came within viewing distance of the cluster of houses called Morlin Pond they were both so groggy with exhaustion they might as well have been drunk. Much to Eskel's puzzlement the cat had not developed the paranoia and tremors from the exhaustion this time, however.

It wasn't important at the moment, though, so he hadn't meant to ask. When the cat stopped and took a grey cloth out of her pack, though, he figured he might as well.

“I can't help noticing you're not quite as antsy from exhaustion now as you were two weeks ago.”

She chuckled. “Antsy. That was the diplomatic way of putting it. But no, you're right.”

“Any particular reason that might be?” He prompted.

“Just because I had no physical injuries, when you met me, doesn't mean my condition hasn't also improved a lot during our time together,” she explained, seemingly without any adverse reaction to his question.

He dared voice the question as he watched her wrap the cloth around her head, hiding her face. “What were you recovering from?” And then added as an afterthought: “And why are you covering up?”

She sighed. “You're not gonna let that go, are you?”

He shook his head. “Can't blame me for wondering, can you?”

“No, I guess not.” Her yellow eyes studied him over the edge of the woollen cloth. “Look, it's deeply personal for me. I've already told you about things I've never told another living soul. I appreciate that you've been so surprisingly, uhhh, non-judgemental, but this is just not something I wish to divulge.”

“It has to do with that stuff you mentioned catching up with you.”

She closed her eyes for a few heartbeats before opening them again and answering: “Yes. Yes it does, but I still don't want to discuss it. Please.”

He tried to see if he could read anything in her eyes, but there was nothing to see there. Before he could utter another question she spoke again.

“As for covering up. The bulky tunic and the cloth is to hide my gender. I'd rather not have it widely known that a female witcher exists.”

“Yeah, I can imagine there are certain things you'd prefer to be anonymous about.”

“It's not that. I've... I've made my mistakes and I try to make amends. It's more a question of safety really.”

“Safety?”

“How many female witchers do you know? One. And why is that? 'Cause everyone else never got through the Trial. Who'd be interested in this knowledge? Oh, just about every single fucking mage with a fetish for mutagens and lab experiments. And frankly, I've been the unwilling subject of enough experiments to last me a lifetime and beyond, thank you very much. I'd rather not have it known that the wet dream of every dabbler in mutagenic transformation is walking around just waiting to be brought in for further study.”

Eskel didn't need to see her face to tell that she grimaced behind the cloth covering her face.

“When I interact with others I pose as a male witcher. And because people do not think to suspect otherwise, they are willing to believe it.”

“What about back when you... uhhh, your story. You didn't always do this?”

“No. Back when I still came back to the keep at regular intervals, I could still to some degree rely on their protection should an outsider trouble me. Didn't protect me from my own, but it was something. I no longer have that luxury, so I take my precautions.”

“Who else knows?”

“Any Cats and mages that were around to meet me back then and you.”

“That's all? No lovers?”

“Pretty much,” she answered evasively, “I bet someone's gonna have themselves a real interesting surprise, when I croak somewhere and they find my body.”

He did have to laugh at that. “Hah, they're probably gonna think someone cursed a male witcher and turned him female, then.”

“Ohhh good explanation. I like that.” There was laughter in her eyes now, too.

“You do look pretty androgynous like that.” Eskel indicated her attire with a nod. “Could be anything; woman or man, elf or human. Not dwarf, though,” he added with a wink.

“Haha, yep, and until the clothes come off I am both and neither. And I wanna keep it that way. Don't blow my cover, alright?”

“You got it.” He wouldn't dream of it.

On that considerably higher note they wandered into the village. He was instantly recognized, of course, not many around with a mug like his. Little did the villagers know that his companion was one of those very few.

“Oh, Master Witcher, you're back!”

“Witchers! Two at the same time!”

They could both hear the shouts, but also the whispers of something ill potentially being afoot, when two witchers show up at the same time. They shared glances and raised eyebrows and agreed to meet later at the tavern, before Eskel headed to the reeve to inform him of their livestock's increased safety and the cat headed off to see if someone might have a horse for sale.

They didn't even get as far as the tavern before they met again. The reeve had been pleased with the news, of course, but had also been very worried that he might demand payment for services rendered after all. Once he understood that that wasn't the case, the elderly man relaxed and insisted that Eskel share a meal with them. He had intended to dine with the witcheress, but the smell of fresh bread had his mouth watering, and he gave in. After that was handled to everybody's satisfaction, Eskel took Mantis to the blacksmith. He wanted to make sure everything was alright with his hooves after trudging through all that mud.

It was there at the blacksmith's he ran into the cat again. He'd recognise her scent anywhere, but she spoke differently, more gruffly and with a deeper tone, to lend credence to her identity as a man. She was rubbing down a seemingly nervous grey mare, while the animal was being shod. It was a lightly built riding horse, one built for speed rather than strength. Not a bad mount for a light rider.

“She needs to be out and running again, it seems,” Eskel heard her say, just as he led Mantis up.

“Och aye, Master Witcher. That she does. That she does.”

“You've shod her before, I see. What can you tell me about her handling?”

“Ye've not taken her for a ride yet? Before buying?” The smith sounded aghast.

“No. I need a horse, and this was the only one for sale. Left me with little choice in the matter.”

“What did they tell ye?”

“Just that she used to be a courier's horse, that the courier had died, and they had no need of a riding horse in the family, but rather a cow or a few goats. And I can see she must be about ten years old.”

“Just so, just so, Master Witcher. Nine, actually. Nine years old. Colbyn died in the autumn. The courier. A good man, he was; a good man. Left his poor wife with five bairns and aught to make a living from. The eldest boy tried to ride the grey here, but she's a feisty lass, and she threw him. He dunnae have his father's hand with horses. Right ploughing luck the boy weren't hurt. Right ploughing luck it was.”

“I'm sure we can build a rapport anyway. They didn't tell me her name, either. You know it?”

“Ach, Colbyn warn't never much for sentiments like that. Don't think he ever named any horse o' his. Not a one.”

“Hmm, curious. What else do you know about her?”

“Och, but she's a fast one. That she is. He used to brag about the time he made between posts, and I don't know nothing about couriering, so I don't remember the times were, but anyone with an eye in 'is head can tell she's a runner. He claimed she was fast as a wraith. Could outrun one, in fact.”

“Really now?”

“That's what he said, Master Witcher, sir. Now, I dunnae if it be true or whatnot, but Colbyn was ever a good and reliable courier, and having a horse that could carry him away from danger was important to him.”

“Of course, it would be. Wraith, he said?”

“That's what 'e said, yes. When 'e bought her four years ago. That's what 'e said.”

The blacksmith finished work on what was apparently the last shoe and got up, rubbing his hands on his apron.

“Well, she is a ghostly grey, and if she is as fast as that, then perhaps Wraith is a good name for her,” the cat pondered aloud.

“Haha, and a fitting name for a Witcher's horse it is, if ye ask me, Master Witcher, sir.” The smith patted the mare's rump. She shook her head in protest. “Now that's about that. And I see both of ye have decided to pay me a visit today.”

The blacksmith was clearly already eyeing more coin, as he was talking in Eskel's direction while taking his payment from the cat. She noticed it, too, because it was an amused pair of eyes that met his.

“Och, what **have** yes done to this poor beast?”

“Mother Nature can be a fickle lady. Got caught in the blizzard and had to wade through ankle deep mud on the way here. Need you to make sure everything's alright with him,” Eskel told the smith. “He saved my life out there, and now he deserves some pampering.”

“Oh ho now, that's how I like to hear folk treating their horses.” Especially when they're paying you to do the pampering, I bet, Eskel thought to himself.

The cat cleared her throat and spoke in that gravelly voice she had assumed. “I'll take this girl out for a ride. See how she likes me. Meet at the tavern later?”

“You bet.”

They watched her as she led the horse away from the smithy. Eskel marvelled at how she had even changed her walk to be masculine. She was thorough if nothing else, and he found himself missing that seductive sway of her hips.

“Friend o' yours?” The smith asked.

“You could say that,” Eskel responded, “and so is Mantis here, so you be sure you give him your best.”

“Aye, of course Master Witcher. You jus' leave him to me, and he'll be right as rain. Right as rain.”

“That's what I'm hoping. It was ugly out there. First the wyverns, then the blizzard and the mud. He's had a bad month.”

“Och, that I can tell. That I can tell. Good on you to have him seen to first thing now. Jus' like yer friend. Also seemed to mind well the beast's nature.”

“Of course. He's a witcher. We wouldn't get anything done if we couldn't get where we need to be going. For that we need horses we can rely on. And you can only rely on a horse if you treat it well.”

“That's what I always say, Master Witcher. Yer speaking my mind. Horses, they're clever beasts, they are. Make friends with them, and they'll be good and help ye and lift the leg you want them to. Be mean to them and they'll kick ye so hard ye'll be visiting yer granddam even afore ye know it.”

Eskel didn't want to converse, so he wanted to get the smith to just babble of his own accord. “You a Skelliger by any chance?”

“Aye, Master Witcher. That I am. That I am. Though it's been a long time, since I last set foot on my native rock. A long time, indeed.”

Eskel didn't have the heart to point out that a long time had a different meaning to a witcher. “What made you come here?”

“Well, there was this lass, ye see...”

The blacksmith happily talked while he worked and told his tale, and Eskel listened with only half an ear, making appropriate comments when necessary, and otherwise busying himself with giving Mantis the first thorough, proper grooming possible in nearly a month, all the while thinking about how the evening's meal would probably be the last he would share with the witcheress.

When the smith was done with his work, Mantis's hooves looked a lot better than they had.

“Master Witcher, sir, do ye wish to put him up here as well?”

“Pardon me?”

“Yer friend, sir. He wished for a stable for the night, and since the tavern has aught other than a shelter, I offered he could stable the grey here with me.”

“Oh yeah. That'll be fine.”

Eskel paid the smith and led Mantis into the stable building, where the smith's own draft horse stood and munched on a bale of hay. It wasn't much, but it was dry and warm and there was hay and plenty of oats.

“There you go, buddy. Your turn to enjoy life a little. You deserve it after this ordeal.”

When Eskel strode out of the stable, Mantis was already snorting happily into his oats.

“I'll take good care o' him, Master Witcher, sir. Very good care.”

“Good. I'll be at the tavern if anything comes up.”

“Of course, sir.”

The tavern was small and didn't have many guests for which Eskel was grateful. It meant fewer people to stare at him. The ones that were there did stare of course, but with only a handful he didn't get quite so agitated.

He'd put away several mugs of ale, and it wasn't even good ale, but he'd missed it nonetheless, when the cat finally entered the tavern.

She sat down opposite of him at the table and waved at the proprietor, who came over and looking somewhat skeptical of having to address two witchers at once.

“Food and drinks,” she asked, “what are you serving today, good man?”

Clearly the politeness thawed him a slight bit.

“Well, sirs, we have the regular stew, but if you'll be but a little patient, there'll be roast mutton ready for later.”

“Ohh, I think I've had enough stew to last me a while. I'm all for the roast mutton, what do you say?” She asked him.

“That sounds like just what we need. Do you have something we can eat with our ale until the mutton's ready? We will want plenty of ale. Bread will do just fine,” Eskel assured the man, and the cat nodded vehemently for her part.

“Oh, I think I can do one better than that, sirs.” Now somewhat more enthused by them seemingly being polite and quiet, the tavernkeep took the initiative: “We have a few pies left over from lunch. Now, they aren't fresh and hot anymore, but my wife does make some excellent pies.”

Two pairs of cat eyes met across the table. The “mmmm” they said in unison was clear enough, and the man's demeanour softened even further into actually putting a smile on his face.

“Good man, you've read my mind. I haven't had anything out of an oven in several months. Be it pie, bread or meatloaf, please bring it. It sounds like just the thing to soothe the soul.” This kind of flattery was not something Eskel would have expected from the witcheress, but then again, being as covert about everything as she was, she probably did have to lay it on thick to get what she wanted here and there. It worked, too, it seemed.

“Of course, sirs, I shall warm the pies forthwith. And ale to drink, I presume?”

“Aplenty, if you please,” Eskel confirmed. When the man had left their table he directed an observation to the cat: “That was some excellent flattery, you just trotted out. Necessity teach you that?”

“Hah, you guessed it.” Her eyes were smiling over the grey cloth still covering her face.

“You're in a very good mood. Glad to be rid of me soon?”

“Oh, bugger off with that, wolf, you know well enough that's not it.”

“Yeah, but it still seems like more than the prospect of food warrants.”

“And that, too, is true, because that horse... I'm telling you, she's a dream. Probably worth twice the amount they wanted for her. Think I'm gonna round up a few goats and half a chicken coop and give 'em that in addition. I feel like I've robbed them as it is.”

“They probably just wanted to be rid of it, because it threw the kid off.”

“Yeah, but still... ahh drinks.” And indeed, foaming mugs of ale had arrived, as well as a handful of slices of freshly baked bread. “I see you're ahead of me, though.” She nodded at the empty mugs the innkeep took with him.

“Yep. Got treated to a meal at the reeve's as well.”

“Nice. Getting rid of wyverns for free gets you something else entirely, hm? Hospitality sure isn't a bad thing after all the cold and mud.”

“Yep, I'm beginning to see, why Geralt is adamant it can be worth it to be charitable at times.”

“At times, probably. They'll likely have forgotten all about it next time you pass through. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Oh, I will.”

The cat was clearly a practiced hand at eating and drinking, while having most of her face covered with cloth. She had to me meticulous about it and had arranged the cloth just so, but there was no way anyone would have had a chance to notice what she looked like underneath.

“Old hand at that?” He gestured at the scarf.

“Two decades and counting. It's doable but bothersome. Another reason I prefer not to eat in public eateries.”

By the time they had eaten their fill, the people in the taproom had been replaced by others. There were none left now who had seen either of them enter, and the stares had stopped. At least those directed at Eskel. She made a brief mention of it and he just shrugged and said: “Made a habit of keeping my good side towards the room.”

“At least you have a good side,” she laughed quietly.

“Yeah, never knew I might still consider myself lucky in that context. Feels strange. You have other qualities, though.”

“Yeah, judging from your reaction, my good side is my backside,” she shot back.

Eskel nearly spewed his ale all over the table, but managed to stop it at a coughing fit. “That, uh, heh, yeah. Among other things. Hey, by the way, where are you staying?”

“Hayloft over the smithy's stable. It's warm, dry and I won't have to deal with running into people there. You?”

“Reeve offered me a bed for the duration of my stay. No burning desire for a bed on your part?”

“Yes, but a bed that isn't mine invariably leads to dealing with nosy staff or a host who gets very offended that I won't even show my face to them. It's not worth the bother. Hayloft is good enough for me. Besides, I can just leave in the morning, no fuss.”

There it was. “So you're moving on immediately?”

“Yes. I've been holed up in the same place too long already, even if the company has been excellent. I take it you'll stay for a while?”

“Yep. Mantis deserves a rest, and with the haul we made I don't need to look for the next contract immediately.”

“Enjoy that while it lasts, too. Won't be forever.”

“Nah, at some point I'll overstay my welcome here, and I don't want that to happen. Not gonna push my luck. I think I may have used up my entire quota of good fortune for this decade.”

“Well, in case you get restless before Mantis seems ready for the road again, I've heard of a recently widowed mother, who might need a hand with remodeling a one-horse stable to house some goats and poultry instead.” She winked at him.

“I'm not gonna bed her, if that's what you mean.”

“Not at all. I just recalled what you said about doing repairs during winter breaks in Kaer Morhen.”

“Ah, I see. Well, your idea might not be all bad. Speaking of Kaer Morhen.” He sent her a weighty look. “I owe you for all you did for me. Owe you a hell of a lot. If ever you need anything, well, when not on the Path you can find me at Kaer Morhen.”

“Yeah, I know. I figured as much.”

“I mean it, cat. Find me if you need my help. I'll be there.”

She nodded, but said nothing, eyes staring into her mug of ale.

“The offer stands.” He sighed in resignation. “You're not gonna take it.”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

“Will we meet again at all, you think?”

She lifted her eyes to his, her previous mirth gone and replaced by that dejected sadness he hadn't seen the slightest trace of in well over a week. “Probably not.”

She got up and stood for a bit, leaning on the table as if not knowing how to proceed. Then she sighed, pushed off and straightened up. “Take care of yourself, wolf. World needs more of your kind.”

“Sure, you take care, too, cat.”

There was an umistakable flash of guilt in her eyes before she nodded and muttered: “For a little while yet.”

He watched her retreating back as she headed over to the innkeep to pay for the night's excesses. He couldn't make out what she said to the man, but it brought a smile to his face that even reached his eyes this time. For someone who avoided people to that degree, she certainly seemed to know well enough how to handle them. Eskel would have loved to ask her a million more questions, but for now he could just sit and watch her head for the door.

Before she left the tavern she sought his gaze from the door. What everyone else saw would just have been a respectful nod and a salute between two colleagues. But Eskel knew a goodbye, when he saw one.

When he left the tavern not too long afterwards the proprietor told him his friend had paid both their tabs. The next morning, when he left the reeve's house after a comfortably filling breakfast, she was long gone from the smithy's loft. When he went to look for the widow, she'd mentioned, the woman could confirm that the younger witcher had been there hours earlier and delivered three goats and a gaggle of hens, ducks, and geese as additional payment for the horse. She cried tears of hope and gratitude, when he offered to fix up the stable, which was really more of a shed, for the new lodgers.

“If only all fightin' men were like you and your young friend,” she'd said, “dealin' straight with folk, and not tryin' to take naught what aren't theirs.”


	27. Interlude 13

Lambert laughed. That had been the entire purpose of mentioning what the woman had said. Eskel really wanted to avoid the morning becoming a mope-fest – contrary to what his prickly brother-in-arms might expect of him.

“Oh, that's great. If everyone were like you, no one would ever get laid ever again.”

“I see you haven't been listening to the story you demanded,” Eskel teased.

He would have liked to meet the cat again, and reminiscing had brought on a bout of melancholy, sure enough, but it had been twenty years. He'd had plenty of time to just appreciate the things he had taken away from that chance encounter. His life being one of them, obviously, but also a little more confidence, than Deidre had left him with. It had not made his face any more appealing, of course, and he still made it the topic of many a self-deprecating joke, but he wasn't half as bitter about it as he had been before. Despite being roughly the same age – more or less, by his estimate – the cat had seemed far wiser than himself in some respects. Most likely the life she had led before Aiden had recruited her was the cause.

“Eskel, Eskel, getting laid once every decade is not what I call a decent rate.”

“Haha, whatever you need to tell yourself about me, Lambert. At least I don't have to resort to my friend's wives.”

“You wound me! That was a low blow,” and there was badly concealed anger in Lambert's tone. Eskel didn't care.

“Yeah, a low blow to your friend, maybe. Ever thought about that? I mean, before handing out relationship advice to others?”

“Says the one who learned life lessons from a murderer. That's rich.”

Oh yes, the snark was back in full force, but Eskel knew just how to counter this one. “At least she regretted, what she'd done. Can you say the same?”

Lambert didn't say a word, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Yeah, he regretted it. No chance of ever getting him to admit it, though. Knowing was good enough for Eskel, so when the chance to change the subject presented itself in the form of Yennefer he took it.

“Morning, Yenn.” Now he could just hope she wouldn't comment on what happened the night before.

“Good morning, Eskel.” She nodded politely to him. “Lambert.”

The ass just pretended to not have heard her. Eskel kicked him under the table and received a death glare in return, but at least he got him to mumble a surly “g'morning”.

“Any sign of Vesemir yet?” Yennefer enquired, apparently content to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had passed.

“Nope,” Eskel replied with a shake of his head. “But it can't be long now.”

“Good. Go and-” She didn't finish her sentence, probably distracted by getting something to eat, Eskel surmised. When she spoke again he realised she had regretted the wording.

“I would appreciate your help in setting up what we need.”

Lambert got up. “Better go wake up pretty boy, then.”

“No,” Eskel stopped him, “let him sleep. He's had way less of it than us.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Yenn's mouth twitch in a small smile. He turned ever so slightly towards her, and when she noticed she quickly schooled her features, though it was with a somewhat kinder look she nodded almost imperceptibly to him.

“And whose fault is that?” Lambert sneered.

Eskel got up. “Lambert, if you so much as consider claiming you didn't have a hand in it, I will disinherit you.”

“Pffft, as if you have anything worth inheriting.”

“Clearly you haven't found my stash of booze yet, then.”

The younger witcher's eyes lit up. “Soooo, if I kill you now, does that mean there's a huge stash of delicious liquor waiting for me somewhere?”

“Just shut the fuck up and help out, alright?”

“Alright, alright, you grouch. But I better inherit some damn good stuff from you. Mark my words.”

“What did you need, Yenn?” Eskel asked the sorceress, who held a plate with a very sparse breakfast and simply waited with an amused expression for them to finish.

“I told you about the plan last night. Nothing's changed. I assume you know what's needed?”

Lambert crossed his arms and looked as sour as ever.

“You don't think Vesemir will have had any luck?” Eskel asked her.

“If I thought something as simple as that might work, I would not be doing something as dangerous and potentially fatal as what I intend. Contrary to popular belief, I do not particularly enjoy such endeavours.” Her raised eyebrow dared them to challenge her statement, and Eskel realised from the look in her eyes just how much she didn't actually want to do this.

“That, uhhh, makes sense, I guess.”

Lambert just snorted. “Right. Anyway, I can hear Uma outside. Guess the old man's back.”

“Best get to it then,” Eskel said a fair bit more energetically than was genuine.

Lambert snorted again and headed off towards the stairs leading to their basement storage, looking angrier for every step he took.

When Eskel rounded the table to go after him Yennefer spoke: “Eskel.” He stopped and half-turned to look at her. “Thank you.” She seemed genuine, and he nodded in acknowledgement, not really sure whether she referred to him handling Lambert's temper or to not waking Geralt up. Maybe both. It didn't matter.

The prospects for their day's work did nothing to soothe his hung-over queasiness, as he walked off in the same direction as Lambert.


	28. Epilogue

It had been ten years since Eskel had last seen Kaer Morhen. It was the same battered ruin it had been for decades now. For some reason he had expected it to look even worse now, but somehow it seemed the same as it had last he saw it; weathered and dilapidated. He wondered how many of the others might show up this winter. If any at all.

Letting Scorpion trudge up the winding path to the gates at his pace of choice, Eskel habitually checked for any recent tracks. Interestingly there were some. Several, in fact. Horses. Someone had shown up, then. Only a question of who.

The closer he got, the more he realised he didn't actually want company. Damn it all, now he was committed to checking back in with the all but disbanded witcher school that he'd otherwise decided to stay away from. But it had been ten years, and it somehow felt right to come back and remember Vesemir now. Honour him. Was about time, too, and he felt guilty for having put it off for so long. Now after a decade had passed the guilt was eating away at him.

He dragged his feet and took his sweet time making sure Scorpion was comfortable in the stables all the while trying to figure out what he'd do and say to the company he had no real wish to rejoin. Four other horses were stabled there currently. That meant that even if both Geralt and Lambert had shown up there'd be still be at least two other people present. Too many people. Far too many. He hoped a third might be Ciri; at least she didn't make him antsy. Not since she'd grown up, anyway. Despite himself he had to admit he was looking forward to finding out how Geralt was doing. His need for solitude and for mourning in private notwithstanding, he was curious about his brother. He'd heard that the White Wolf had gone South, but that was about it.

He was actually curious about Lambert too, though he'd be loath to admit it. He felt a kind of responsibility to check up on his brothers, but at the same time he wished it could be done without too much talking and especially without fuss. He should be so lucky; Lambert was ever a fussy one. The fourth horse would have an owner, whoever it might be, and Eskel had already counted up the only three people he would find tolerable. Oh, but he was regretting this already.

There was even a considerable risk that one or more of their sorceress friends would show up as well. Friends. What that word meant in this context, Eskel was never quite sure. Friendship was a dodgy thing with sorceresses, and even though he knew that both Yenn and Triss could be trusted, he still found it hard to do so, and he felt bad for it. Their colleagues tended to be wrapped up in their power and politics one way or another. Hell, Triss was in Kovir and wrapped up in politics, too. At least mostly peaceful politics were preferable. Neither Triss nor Yenn were likely to arrive on horseback, however.

It occurred to him that the fourth horse might actually belong to Keira Metz. Last he'd seen Lambert, he'd set out with the blonde mage to help her with her ambitious goal of curing the plague. It had actually been a while since he'd come across plague-ravaged lands. Maybe they had succeeded? Or were in the process of succeeding, at least? Might they still be travelling together after ten years? If so, the younger witcher might have beaten Geralt's record of long-term relationships. At least in terms of stability. How much Geralt and Yenn would have been on break from each other over the past decade he didn't know. Maybe not as much as before – Yenn had seemed different last he'd seen her, just before he left the keep.

By the time there weren't anything left with which to stall his entrance to the castle proper he climbed the last flights of stairs, took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy, battered doors and headed inside.

”Well, well, well, finally he shows. To what do we owe the honour?” Lambert hadn't changed one bit. His sneering tone was the same familiar one as always, though Eskel was certain he detected a hint of amicability he wasn't used to.

Geralt raised his mug in salute and they exchanged a fleeting nod of greeting. The understanding that passed between them hadn't changed in the intervening years. His friend was still as exasperated with Lambert's antagonistic attitude as always. And as always a nod and a look was enough for the two of them to know that everything was as it used to be. That settled his nerves a bit.

Nothing seemed to have changed – and yet everything had. There was someone he wouldn't be greeting upon his return. He didn't want to think about that. Not until he'd sat himself down with something to drink, at least.

“Fuck off, Lambert. You know why I'm here. I'd hoped I wouldn't have to listen to your prattle.”

“Oh, but if I don't entertain the masses, no one will say a word.”

“Don't let me stop you. I just prefer being quiet.” Eskel sat down at the table across from Geralt.

”Quiet, yeah. That's right. And stiff. And boring. Until we get some booze in you. Here, I remember how talkative you were last time – and if you have any good stories to add this time, I will get them out of you. There'll be no sitting on them for two decades this time.” The younger witcher placed a bottle of vodka on the table before him, and Eskel suppressed a shudder. He remembered their 'bash' ten years ago all too well. Ale would be his poison of choice – at least for now, while they still hadn't caught up on events.

It was easy enough to get the conversation going again. All he had to do was ask Lambert what he'd been up to lately. The man had an impressive talent for telling flashy stories, and Eskel was pretty sure the git had missed his calling as a bard. He glanced apologetically at Geralt, whom he was sure had already heard all of the bragging – at least judging from the slightly weary look on the man's face. Geralt met his his questioning look with a small smile and then reached behind him and rummaged in a bag by the sound of it. Turning back to the table he placed a bottle of Mahakaman Spirit on the table between them.

Lambert whistled in appreciation. “That's my inheritance, I take it?” He reached for the bottle, but Geralt moved it out of reach and handed it directly to Eskel instead.

“Forget the vodka. I promised you this 10 years ago,” Geralt ordered.

Eskel was confused for just a moment, but then it dawned on him; their little impromptu horse race! He'd won, and then it had completely disappeared from memory, first because of their bender and then because of... everything. He didn't want to think about it, but it was what he was there to do.

“Damn, wolf, you remembered.”

“'Course I did.”

“I nearly didn't. Got other things on my mind soon after.”

“Yeah. Lots of things lay forgotten for a while. Wasn't just you.”

It wasn't long before Keira and Yennefer joined them – they'd apparently been cooped up somewhere else in the keep doing gods know what. He didn't want to know. For now he'd just try to ignore the odd uneasiness he always felt around sorceresses, even if the two of them had just saved them from Lambert's incessant yammering. It was strange to watch how the hard exterior of the man, Geralt had so accurately termed a “prickly bastard”, visibly softened around the blonde sorceress. Not that it would be wise to let him know they could tell, of course. Lambert seemed, if not happy, then at least content, Eskel was pleased to note. The sneer had definitely been mostly an act earlier, no doubt about it.

Eventually Triss and Ciri showed up as well; Eskel wasn't sure whether everybody else had just known they'd arrive together or the two of them had merely stepped outside together for a short while. And then he'd had the impeccable timing to arrive while as few as possible had been present in the hall. He didn't bother asking. It didn't matter anyway. They were all here. The whole gang together again to commemorate something he had taken nearly a decade to come to terms with. Maybe the vodka wasn't such a bad idea after all. The Mahakaman spirit deserved better than washing down grief and old memories.

Eskel tried to push away those thoughts, when Ciri spotted him and ran over to envelop him in a hug. He didn't know what to do with this kind of emotional stuff, but it was Ciri, and he was glad to see her again, returning the hug as awkwardly as ever. Her gesture was appreciated even if he was more comfortable, when he could keep people at a distance with either a scowl or stiff politeness. Neither were appropriate with Ciri; not after everything they'd been through.

The look Geralt sent him told him he knew exactly what he was dealing with. Ironic how the youngest and angriest of the three of them seemed to be the one, whose personal life was the least in disarray. No, that wasn't fair. The looks passing between Yennefer and Geralt revealed no less tension than there had been last time he'd seen them together; but it wasn't the frustration and latent aggression it had been once. Perhaps the Southern climate was good for them. And himself? Well, as usual he had no personal life to speak of anyway. He plodded on along the Path, did what he was meant to, what he had to, tried not to mess up too extravagantly along the way. Wasn't doing too bad a job of it either.

Drinking and eating among friends was a rare occurrence for their lot, so it took him a while to truly relax, but as the ale and later on the vodka went down, his mood went up. At least a little. Despite being in the company of so many people, there was still one missing. That thought did nothing to dispel the morose mood he had burrowed into on the way. He probably should try to cheer up before getting more drunk. Or maybe getting more drunk would do the trick.

No, that wouldn't be right.

He got up and told the others where he'd go. Not waiting for any reactions – they would do as they pleased – he headed out. He didn't want to be drunk off his arse, when visiting Vesemir's grave. And Leo's.

The frosty autumn air served to clear up much of the alcohol induced fog, and when he stood before Vesemir's final resting place he wondered why he had waiting so long to go back. A small voice at the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Lambert, pointed out that it had taken him only half as long as last time.

“Hey, old man. Thanks for teaching me everything I know. You'll be pleased to know I'm still putting it to reasonable use. Path is still always deep mud or choking dust, just like always. It's never just passable. Doubt that'll ever change. With so few of us left there seems to be monsters enough to go around. Haven't had a chance to be bored, yet. It actually seems like we can't quite keep up anymore, perhaps there really are too few of us left by now.” He paused. “I miss you.”

He had no idea how long he'd been standing there. When he finally turned to leave he found Ciri waiting for him. She'd been crying. She probably still felt responsible, he surmised. He quickly closed the distance between them and enveloped her in a hug. He might not like hugs much, but she needed one.

The two of them ended up taking a walk. Talking to people one at a time suited him better anyway. It seemed it was a trait several of them shared, judging from how people had been walking and talking in pairs; and not just when he arrived, according to Ciri. Hers was an easy friendliness and a friendship easily rekindled. They spoke of the old days, when she was training in Kaer Morhen. Or she spoke, mostly, and Eskel just let the memories she shared wash over him and bring him back to a happier time for a bit.

When they returned, Lambert and Triss were engaged in conversation and were about to leave the keep, confirming for Eskel that Ciri's observation had been on point.

Just before the doors closed behind them, Lambert poked his head in again and shouted at Eskel. “Oh, I almost forgot. You should bring your stuff up to your usual room. Last winter there was a letter waiting here for you, and I put it where you usually put your crap.”

A letter? Who the fuck would write him a letter? He didn't make friends around the world like Geralt did. A sinking feeling settled in his gut. Last time he'd received a letter here, it had been from Merwyn Ademeyn thanking him for seeing his sister to her final resting place.

He shrugged and tried to pretend he wasn't curious. Lambert had that covered anyway. Shamelessly so. “Come on, you oaf. Go get it. I want to know who in their right mind would write your ugly ass a letter.”

“All right, all right. I'll go. Triss is waiting for you. You can hear about it, when you come back inside.”

Hefting his things he dragged himself and them upstairs and went to where he usually bunked. Someone had fixed the place up to a better condition than it had been in, when he was last here. It was dusty as all hell, though. After fixing it up, no one had touched it in years, he concluded. Except for the trunk, naturally. As Lambert had said there was a letter inside. A fairly long one, too, as far as he could tell; several sheaves of paper in the roll. The outside simply said _To Witcher Eskel, Kaer Morhen_ in a clumsy hand he didn't recognise at all.

Apprehensively he untied the cord holding it together. At the sight of the first two words he lost heart and threw the roll on the bed. _Hello wolf_ , it said. It was from her. Images flashed through his mind. She was the only person who'd ever called him that. It had to be from her. Shit. How long had it been? Three decades or thereabouts by now. Wasn't that what he'd said to Lambert, when he'd gotten it out of him that hung-over morning? Shit, he'd told the whoreson he wouldn't even expect her to be alive, and now she was writing him letters? He was only vaguely aware of sitting down heavily, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He didn't need this. Not now.

“Hey, you keeled over up here? Didn't think you'd had that much to drink yet.” It was Geralt, not Lambert. Thank fuck for small blessings. He grunted to acknowledge his presence.

“You look moodier than usual. Bad news?”

“Probably. Don't know yet.”

“You haven't read it yet? You've been up here for ages now.” Had he? “It was all I could do to keep Lambert from coming up here with me.”

“It's from her.”

“Who?”

“That female witcher I met.”

“And fucked, as I recall you telling Lambert,” Geralt dead-panned, the attempt at lightening the mood plain as day. “The cat, right?”

“The one who's not supposed to be possible. You heard Lambert pestering me about it back then?”

“Parts of it. I was in and out. Mostly out.” An exaggerated wince illustrated well enough the memories of the hangover they'd all suffered after their bender.

Eskel just looked at the rolled up wad of papers on the bunk. He didn't want a complication added to his life. Not now when the witch-hunts had finally petered out and things had settled down a little.

“Try and glare a little harder. It might disappear. Why not just read it?”

“Look at the length of it, wolf. Nothing good can come of something that long.”

“That's interesting news. I've heard several women claim otherwise.”

“Fuck off, Geralt. You're as bad as Lambert sometimes.”

Geralt pinned him with one of those evaluating looks and then sat down next to him. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“It doesn't bother me.” It was a weak protest and they both knew it.

“Could have fooled me.” A snort accompanied his friend's statement. “You look about ready to burn it and leave.”

“It's not bother, it's...” he couldn't voice it and felt all the more pathetic for it.

Geralt hit the nail on the head. “You fear what's in there.”

Eskel slowly inclined his head. “I'm pretty transparent, I guess. For fuck's sake, wolf, I don't even know her name. She always just evaded it with odd phrases like 'maybe I have one, maybe I don't' and 'I do and I don't', and it just made me so frustrated I stopped aski-” he stopped at the look on Geralt's face.

“I'll be back,” his friend said enigmatically.

Eskel was confused but waited patiently for Geralt to return with a stack of papers in his hands, rifling through them as he walked over and sat back down.

“I pick up lots of crap. I dump much of it here. About ten years ago, after we'd finally stopped Eredin, I ran into someone down in Honorton. A Cat Witcher by the name of Gaetan. This is a letter to him I found in his hide-out.” Geralt found what he was looking for and handed him the letter. “Notice any peculiar wordings?”

Eskel read the letter, which was really just a note. “Might be alive, might be dead. Shit, Geralt, you think that's her?”

“Why would this Joël write it like that and not just leave it at 'can't say for sure'? Might be referencing something we don't know about her, but it sounds like she referred to herself in the same fashion.”

“Yeah. Gotta admit, it fits. So. Schrödinger? That's a surname. Doesn't fit her either: It's Nilfgaardian and she's definitely from even further South than that.”

Geralt shrugged: “I claimed to be from Rivia long before I'd even set foot there. And even longer before I was granted that title by accident.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “A name might not mean much.”

“I dunno.” Eskel eyed the roll of papers again.

“Come on, go ahead and read it. What's the worst it could say?”

“I don't know, alright?” Geralt just looked at him expectantly, so he sighed and tried to think of an answer. “The worst... that she turns out to be everything bad we know the cats for, and that she's planning on rebuilding the school as that guild of insane assassins they ended up as?”

“And with your knowledge of her-”

“I don't know too much about her. That's the problem.”

“But you must have gleaned some kind of insight to her character. You said you fought together, talked...” Geralt let the question hang and didn't refer to their other activities again, for which Eskel was grateful. He really could do without any taunting smirks added to this conversation.

“Yeah, we did.”

“And what was your impression?”

Eskel snorted. That she was a friendless, lonely freak with a death-wish, who simply hadn't gotten around to granting herself that wish before he'd met her. Probably a little harsh, but not too far off either. And not unlike several other witchers he'd known. And still he'd liked her too much to even be able to say those things out loud. It felt wrong.

“That I could trust her at my back. At least at the time. But now? It's been... probably more than thirty years, Geralt. And neither of us have made any attempts at contacting each other.”

“You don't know that.” The quiet point was well made, and that sinking feeling in Eskel's stomach intensified.

“You think she might have tried before this?”

“Well, there has been a great deal of chaos surrounding this place in recent years. But also a lot of abandonment. Really. You're just postponing the inevitable – if you don't read it, then sooner or later Lambert will come up here and force your hand.”

There was a scary thought. “Shit, you're right.” He knew he had to. He hated himself for not being stronger than this, but there it was. He was a simple man, he liked to keep his life simple as well. And nothing simple needed that many sheaves of paper in a letter. But Geralt was right. The letter felt heavy in his hand as he picked it up again. Please let it not be another entanglement determined by Fate. He never knew what to do with such things. That was Geralt's business. Let him handle all the Big Problems.

But he did read, and as he made his way through the shaky scrawlings, he was grateful for his brother's presence at his side.

# # # # #

_Hello wolf_

_I hope this letter finds you in better health than last we met. And better than what I am likely to boast, when you receive it._

_I do not have much time left. My lucidity is waning, and this time I fear I shall not regain it. Unexpectedly I find myself with a strange need to tell my story before it becomes impossible. Perhaps it is just the vain need for a last confession, a defence maybe, vindication even. Or maybe it's an irrational survival instinct that grants me a naïve hope that maybe you can help. I doubt it, though. My end seems inevitable, and if there is help to be gotten, I suspect it will be of the merciful kind that'll simply grant me a final rest. I find some small consolation in the idea that if peace is ever to be granted me, it might be by your hand. I would want it to be. It seems somehow right – in the grander scheme of things, too. A wolf putting an end to the last of the cats._

_I suspect, I've only managed to confuse you with this introduction, so let me start with the obvious basics._

_As you saw, I'm a witcher, though it shouldn't be possible. I suppose my current predicament re-affirms that indeed it isn't – I've just managed to drag out my slow death over far more decades than has been entirely reasonable. Guess it comes with the territory. I'm not known for reasonableness, nor are my brothers._

_It will come as a surprise to no one that if anybody never gave up on making female witchers it would be the School of the Cat. Our style lends itself rather well to smaller, limber fighters than does the use of heavy armour. And women can get into places (and graces) that men find harder to access. If the aim is solely to fight monsters this would be irrelevant, but as the school's slide towards base assassinations had long since begun, the research into mutagens for females was never discontinued as it should have been._

_Of all the witcher schools, I suppose the cats started out with better chances in that department anyway. Our mutagens were already designed to work with elves, half-elves, quadroons as well as humans. Since we took in all kinds, there were a lot more constant adjustments to the procedures going on. There's an obvious reason we had more failed Trials than the other schools. Such a waste. At some point someone must have figured out what needed to be changed to get it to work on females. For some definition of working, anyway, with only one success. More lives to waste. That seems to have been a purpose all of its own in some cases._

_A long string of test subjects were taken in. It was easy enough to get them. The slave-trade is a lucrative business; especially down south, and suppliers were always happy to help, I'm given to understand. It's hardly surprising that several of my brothers settled in the slaving business once they decided witcher's work wasn't lucrative enough anymore. I heard two of your colleagues did away with Jad Karadin up in Novigrad, who'd done exactly that. I remember that smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch. Please give them my thanks. Nice work. Saved me the trouble._

_By the time I joined the school these experiements were long underway. I was technically too old to even begin undergoing the treatments, but for some reason they found something about me that made them want to try it anyway. Don't know what it was. They never told me much. Unfortunately I was in no position to see through all their accursed bullshit and get out before it was too late. By all accounts I shouldn't have survived, but I suppose outliers exist everywhere. Lucky me, I guess. It would have been better had I died with the rest of the female prospects._

_Apparently for a female I took well to the mutations – for some definition of “well”. They seemed to work, though it took a lot longer for the changes to settle. In fact, it took a few months before I was even physically functional again. And even then with senses, strength, speed and stamina in place there was still something unfinished – as if my body simply didn't want to settle with the newness. This I could have worked through. Maybe._

_My mind, however, was also affected, and not at all like it was supposed to be. I don't know for sure, but I think it has to do with the hormonal changes originally designed for males. When in battle I get the same adrenaline boosts that we're all supposed to, but it's as if the excess energy isn't released properly through the fighting. Nor by any other means – I've tried the lot. After a while of build-up my mind shuts down. Well, I'm not sure what my mind actually does, because I've never been around to experience it. I never have any memory of those bouts of madness._

_At first it was a few days every month or so – seemingly in time with what could normally have been my monthly cycle; The one I no longer had anymore anyway. I started training my mind to hold it at bay for longer. I thought I got results, but looking back over the years it may simply have been the way it would have developed no matter what I had done. Whatever the cause, it became a week every 2-3 months. Then a fortnight every 6 months. It remained at that level for some years. Every time I would feel it coming I would return to the keep and go into hiding. I would hunker down in a cell, where I felt confident I wouldn't hurt anyone in my madness. You see, wolf, those first several years, when the insanity struck, people would get hurt. Badly. Some even fatally. And I would never have any memory of it afterwards. I would just wake up to see the results of a mad rampage._

_After a while I began to realise that every time I came out of those bouts, I came out changed. At first I didn't notice for the exhaustion of it all, but then I started making mental maps of my scars and other little signs of unremembered activities. And after every bout there'd be a few more of them. It didn't take me long to figure out that my superiors had decided to experiment further on me, while I would conveniently be unable to remember anything about it. To this day I still don't know what they might have done to me. I've found nothing among their belongings that could tell me. But perhaps it is better – and more merciful – that I do not remember. I stopped returning to the keep after I tried to discuss this with one of our leaders. That's what led to my “interesting” burns. It wasn't necessarily a good idea, staying away. I am unhealthy company – to put it mildly – during those bouts. My fear of what my superiors did to me without my knowledge and my subsequent flight cost far too many lives – and probably more than I'm even aware of, I'm ashamed to admit. Nothing I can say or do will bring those people back._

_Then I found a way to handle it. I worked to keep the madness at bay, and the periods prolonged even further and overcame me only once every 3 or 4 years, but lasting 2-5 months when they did. That led me to devise a new method to handle it. I left my important belongings in a secure location, and then I took only things I could stand to lose. I ventured into dungeons, crypts, ruins, you name it. I did it with stealth, and avoided all combat. Then, when I had gotten as deep inside as possible, I waited for oblivion. Any fight-or-flight instincts that might take over at that point would only have me killing necrophages, kikimores and other things the world wouldn't miss – and the occasional grave-robbers or bandits looking for hide-outs. Mostly I would emerge from the madness in a cleared-out crypt, and though it was evident that I had killed the last inhabitants some time ago, I would still not have strayed outside – much anyway. Back in my right mind (if such still exists – sometimes I have my doubts) I could then go get my belongings and continue where I'd left off. Usually my first stop would be to find a settlement and figure out what date it was._

_It was after such a bout that you found me back then. Or your horse found me, I suppose. You have no idea how lucky you were. Had you gone wyvern-hunting a ten-day earlier, I would still have been inside the ruins and no help would have been around for you. Had you arrived 5 days earlier, I'd still have been so weak from the ordeal that I wouldn't have been able to help you however much I'd wanted to. You had impeccable timing, and I'm the happier for it. Your company was most welcome, though I'm not sure I ever really let you know how much I appreciated having you around. Even if it was just for a little while._

_The past decade and a half has seen a worsening of my problems. Instead of a respite of 3-4 years it very suddenly shortened to only about a year, though the madness didn't shorten proportionally. Would that I had been so lucky, but instead the bouts are steadily and consistently lengthening as well. By now I find myself not just enquiring about the time of year, but about the year itself. My last foray into oblivion lasted almost an entire year._

_My school hasn't exactly done much to endear itself to its colleagues – rather it has brought shame on all of us. To atone for the things I've done, I decided to put an end to it, before the experiments they'd done put an end to me. And thus for the past many years I've spent my mad months in my usual haunts – the good thing about necrophages is that after a few years I can go back to crypts I've cleared out before and do it all over again. Means I won't run out of places to go. And during that same time I've spent my lucid months cleaning house._

_I know there are bounties on most – if not all – of our heads. Though I have hunted down my former brothers, I have claimed none of those bounties. I know our old keep has been taken by soldiers. Your friend, Geralt, seems to have had a run-in with one of my brothers names Gaetan. I have found no traces of him, and since I'm still hearing stories of the White Wolf, I presume Gaetan lies dead somewhere. If I'm correct, I am the last of the cats now. At least I think I've rounded up all of them. I've tried to make sure that all remains of our mutagens and knowledge of them have been destroyed. If I'm not terribly misinformed I ought to be the last remaining person – maybe with the exception of a mage or two – with any knowledge of our remedies and methods for the Trial of the Grasses. I fully intend to take that knowledge to my grave. It should never be put to use again. Nothing much to worry about there – if my guess is correct, I probably won't count as a person for much longer._

_I can feel the build-up these days. I know it's close, and I don't think I'll come out of this one. After sending this missive I will return to where we met all those years ago. It has become a place of fond memories to me. I don't have many of those, so I treasure the few I do have. I have camped there for a few weeks now, making a few brief forays into the ruins. It's the third time I explore them. Their origin is still unclear to me, but the decorations on the walls seem like a combination of elven and dwarven. I found a section that is meant for a little controlled cave-in. The installations are already there – clearly a defensive measure of customary dwarven ingenuity. I think I can make it work again – I will give it a try at least. I hope the elves and dwarves will forgive me for ruining their lovely site in order to make it my tomb. I intend to die here – one way or the other – amongst fond memories. It is only my cowardice that keeps me from ending it directly. And perhaps hope. Hope that I'll find a way. Or that you will. But mostly it's just because I'm a coward._

_I have heard several stories about your brethren of Kaer Morhen by now. I hope you and the others will continue to be the good people you are. And I hope my little clean-up job has been thorough enough to make it a little less bothersome for you to maintain your reputation as such._

_Look after yourself._

_Your friend still (I hope)_

_Cat_


End file.
